


Wishing You Were Here (turns me crazy)

by zanni_1 (zanni_scaramouche)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Architect Stiles Stilinski, Artist Peter Hale, FBI Agent Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), M/M, No Smut, Police Officer Derek Hale, enter with caution pls, it's a beautiful thing, so many things NOT TAGGED, stiles & Allison friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_1
Summary: Architect Stiles Stilinski is in the midst of the project that will make or break his career, the same one that definitely broke his marriage. As he struggles with impending divorce he is plagued with visions of his once fairytale love.I had a dreamI got everything I wanted, Not what you'd thinkAnd if I'm being honest, It might've been a nightmareA love story.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 37
Kudos: 87





	Wishing You Were Here (turns me crazy)

**Author's Note:**

> Author Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings on this piece. PLEASE be aware of that. I also did not tag anything that would give away the story, which includes a LOT ( a l o t ) If you have any concerns or questions feel free to message me on tumblr and I will be happy to answer. 
> 
> This is also a good time to remember that I don't have a beta reader so like... mistakes are guaranteed. Oh and yes, this is another 1D fic that was 'translated' to Sterek. I tried to comb as much as I could to make it fit but there were a lot of changes in this one (character careers and genders etc) so I might have missed something. 
> 
> Architects: I don’t know what you do. I’m sorry I butchered your career. I just wanted to write fic :/ suspension of disbelief! 
> 
> IMPORTANT: Stiles Stilinski’s birthday is now February 8th instead of April 8th. Sorry. Just the way it had to be.

The glint catches his eye in the mirror. Two years and it’s presence on his finger has become a part of him like the tattoos on his skin. Now one accidental glimpse while buttoning his shirt and his whole body freezes, so hypersensitive to the warmed white gold he’s convinced he can feel engraved words pressing into his skin. Only one other ring like his in the world and he hasn't seen sight of it in over a week. His breath stutters at the high possibility it’s sitting cold somewhere, tossed aside and unworn. Beneath his fingers the cream fabric has creased. He murmurs a curse and undoes the buttons he’s worked into the wrong holes to start fresh from the bottom. 

There are gaps around him in the double closet. He tries not to list every piece missing, but the floor beneath him is worn from the years he’s dressed in this exact spot and the holes are as apparent as puzzle pieces removed from a finished picture. The favourite shorts gone from the neat pile on the third shelf down, any empty hanger meant for the fleece with faded cuffs, the oldest pair of white runners gone like knocked out teeth in the lineup at his feet. Things owned before they met. Navy blue cotton hangs boldly in the coveted spot of first hung on the rack like a big middle finger. It’s always been tossed over furniture or the floor since being unwrapped that first christmas, rumpled and soft with age when Stiles habitually rested his face on the solid shoulders beneath it. Now the jumper hangs neatly and, he discovered during a low point, smells of laundry soap for the first time in its life. 

Using rough jabs Stiles tucks in his shirt with his eyes cast at the crisp white paint of the ceiling. Beneath his hands his stomach swells with a steadying breath. Then another. He rests his hands on his hips and lets his eyes slip closed. Personal breakdowns can be rescheduled, today is already booked with meeting the most important man of his life. He makes a futile effort to smooth down the front of his shirt with his right hand, tucks a wayward strand of hair out of his way with the left so he doesn’t have to look at it. 

From the row of shoes opposite of the missing runners he grabs glossed leather shoes. They slide on effortlessly over his favourite boldly printed socks, the batman ones he’s usually teased for, but no one’s here to say anything today so he’ll wear what he likes, thank you very much. 

The apartment is silent in morning stillness, not unusual when there’s a case going, but it’s the stuffy air of a museum that makes his skin crawl. The unsettling neatness of the blinding white linen on the unused bed makes it feel like a display piece, it’s looming presence weighing him down with memories of hours spent laughing, cuddling, sweating between the sheets. His shoes click on the hardwood in rushed steps throughout empty halls as he tries to outrun phantom hands on his skin. The lights are off, he hasn't bothered to turn them on when the gloom of cloudy morning light seeping in through the half shaded windows is enough to cast things into hazy silhouettes, and his gaze stays on the ground in front of him. He grabs the jacket from it’s resting place on the armchair and marches unsteadily out of the door.

Grasping for something, anything, he hums a tune from last night's radio show in an effort to ease his mind. Another futile effort. The meeting is in an hour, if he’s lucky traffic will pull his mind out of itself and he can always do an extra loop around the office if he needs to ignore the uncomfortable choking feeling he’s had for the last week. The vivid dreams aren’t helping, in half of them he’s drowning and the other half he’s falling. Too many times he’s waked drenched in sweat and choking on his own tongue. 

His humming is cut off by a yawn that stretches his face wide and he rolls his neck after, blinking hard and widening his eyes to roll off the tiredness. He’s only been away from his desk for a handful of hours, most of the night spent triple checking every detail of the project for today’s presentation. It’s all set up, he just needs to walk in with a strong handshake and a charming smile to win over the client and seal the deal. He’s charming as hell. He’s got this. 

By the time he climbs into the glossy black Range Rover and sinks into familiar leather he ‘s set his jaw, a mantra on repeat in his mind like it’ll stick if he thinks it enough times. Today is a new day. He can be a new Stiles. 

x

The last notes of a dastardly off key ‘Happy Birthday’ fade out from the living room and Stiles feels a twinge of guilt for missing it as he ducks out of the washroom, selfishly thankful he’s not been caught on camera chiming in with the rest of the guests. The party’s been nice, if a little dull. He’s still getting to know the host and he doesn’t recognize a single face in the crowd. It’s been a good change of pace to stop hunching over graph paper and computer screens, but tomorrow he’ll return to the monotonous rhythm of wake-work-sleep his life has fallen into. The only reason he knows the date is from file saving. 

He pokes his head in the well-stocked kitchen out of curiosity and a lack of anything better to do and snags a beer from the counter. It’s luke warm and disgusting. His face is pinched in disgust at the first mouthful when a laugh pulls his focus to a man beside him reaching for his own bottle. 

“At least it’s free?” 

Stiles narrowly avoids choking as he forces the swill down and tries to keep breathing at the sight of the guy in front of him. Instantly his skin is tacky with sweat and, good god, he’s shaking like he’s got a fever. How is he already such a mess? Luckily the guy hasn’t noticed Stiles’ minor meltdown, too distracted hunting down the bottle opener to pop his cap off. Stiles watches every movement of his fingers avidly, the way they wrap comfortably around glass. A wild guffaw bursts out of him as the guy's whole face crinkles in repulsion from his own first sip. 

“Shit, nevermind,” He chuckles. 

The man sets his beer down on the counter to scoot it behind the rest of unopened bottles lined up and Stiles doesn’t feel too bad about doing the same. Awkwardly he crams his hands into the pockets of his skinnies to avoid reaching out for a handshake or something more idiotic like enveloping the stranger in a hug just to feel the heat of his body. His throat goes dry at just the thought. He needs to learn some control, damn it.

Somehow he manages to fumble through introductions and soon they’ve made a game of it, tucked inconspicuously in the corner of the kitchen talking about a career Stiles could never hope to have without injury and waiting for the perfect moment unsuspecting guests pick up a bottle. The reactions are priceless. More than once they're both overwhelmed with giggles and lean into each other for support while struggling to breathe. Gleeful bright eyes squint so much they’re almost shut as the guy bites on the cuff of his sleeve to muffle his laughter. Stiles is having a hard time looking away from chapped lips and hints of stubble.

“You’d think they’d learn from each other,” Stiles stage whispers while they watch a group of lads take a miserable first sip one after another. 

“Saw you swallow and I still did it, didn’t I?”

Stiles bites down on the inside of his cheek. He uses too much focus on holding back the first inappropriate thought that comes to mind and not enough on finding the right way to respond, so he just pushes his hair out his face if only for something to do with his hands. The guy just laughs at Stiles’ flustered state. 

It might be a little obvious the way his touch lingers on the man’s shoulder or the inward curve of Stiles’ body. There are excuses if he needs them. It’s loud and Stiles doesn’t want to miss a word of winding stories that don’t always lead to an end but still make his stomach clench with laughter. Never mind most of the noise if coming from the rest of the house and the kitchen remains a relatively quiet oasis. He’s had a few drinks. Maybe they were at the beginning of the evening and there weren’t more than two of them since he still plans on driving home. But he could say these things honestly, if he needed to. He doubts he will when every moment he leans closer he’s rewarded with a smile so perfect it’s a punch to the gut. Stiles has been a goner since the moment their eyes met. Without any sign to restrain himself he pushes closer inch by inch, watching the smile grow until the night comes to a close and he stops looking for a reason to hold back at all. 

They wind up squished together in the doorway and Stiles is shrugging on his coat while the man layers on a leather jacket. There’s no reason for them to be so close their limbs keep brushing against together in the tight space, but they are, and Stiles feels like puking butterflies every time he tries to open his mouth. He’s wrapping a scarf around his neck when the man beside him loses balance putting his shoes on and reaches out to save himself, but instead of the wall his hand finds Stiles’ stomach, hot through the thin layer of his shirt, and Stiles jolts like he’s been revived with a defibrillator. 

The heat is removed quickly once the shoe is on and they chuckle it out but the sound coming from Stiles’ mouth is tight. He puts his own hand over the tingling spot on his tummy. The thing is, there’s a glint in those eyes, has been all night, and Stiles doesn’t believe for a second the touch was an accident. It gives him the courage to smooth his voice out long enough to speak just as the man is pulling the door open. 

“I know a place with good beer,” he licks his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets, “if you’re interested, I could show you round.”

Eye contact is impossible so he looks at the man’s loosely tied shoes, the door past his shoulder, the mirror on the wall where he sees a smile that does nothing to slow the hammering of his pulse. 

“You willing to bet on it? I got good taste, whatever it is better blow my mind.”

Stiles can’t stop the flush heating his face as he holds back another innuendo, but his competitive streak sparks. 

“I’m up to the challenge.”

They exchange numbers on the walk out and it should not set off a parade in Stiles’ chest but he can feel a goofy grin splitting his face as they make plans for later in the week. The man teases him just as they part seperate ways on the sidewalk. 

“Really left it to the last minute. Was worried I’d have to slip a note in your pocket.” 

“You could've said something,” Stiles pokes back, embarrassed by how obvious he’s been all night and how thrown he still is everytime he glances over. It’s been so long since he’s done this, so long he can hardly remember it, but surely not every first encounter was this overwhelming. 

The guy shrugs and walks backwards a few steps just to keep talking to Stiles a moment longer, “Nah, then there’s no risk involved. Had to earn it.” 

It’s said with a cheeky wink and Stiles can’t think of anything he wouldn’t do to earn another one as he watches broad shoulders turn around and head the other way. 

His fingers tap on the steering wheel the entire drive home, random bubbles of laughter spill from his lips. Surely it’s too soon, but he’s already squirming in his seat thinking about how agonizing the next five days will be knowing what lies at the end of them. The jitters remind him of the rush of falling.

x

The Range Rover slides into its designated spot with grace perfected by muscle memory, the smooth motion the perfect ending to a calming drive. As a child his father used to tease him for falling asleep as soon as the car started moving. It’s continued to be his way to escape his mind, like his thoughts are radio chatter he can drown out with enough horsepower. 

A phone call jumps up on the bluetooth before he can pull the engine. It’s a jarring reminder. He squints his eyes, will it be more painful brushing off questions live or having to listen to a message he can’t interrupt? On the fourth ring his thumb flicks answer.

He keeps the engine running and barely gets in a word of greeting before he spiels off with the words he was waiting for and informs him about the goings on back home. Stiles counts the beats between the windshield wipers gliding across the glass, mindlessly focussing on the rain slowly distorting his vision over and over only to be wiped clean in a well timed cycle. The ragged sound of rubber being dragged backwards nearly drowns out the question asked at half the volume he’d been speaking in before, like he knows he should ask but doesn’t want to. 

“I’m fine, dad.” He responds automatically and cringes at the lie. 

“Did you two sort it out? Is he back home?”

“We haven’t really talked since… “ He stares at the bold plaque stating this spot was reserved for M. G. STILINSKI. A dizzying wave of relief washes through him, suddenly thankful they decided not to change names. Raindrops quickly blur out his name and he clears his throat, “He’s still staying with Scott.”

His dad, bless him, gives him mercy. 

“How is Scott? Is he still with that girl? The blond one. She made those cookies they sent us for Christmas, you remember?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. He’d be hard pressed to come up with the number of girls Scott’s been through since the Holidays, let alone their hair. Scott himself probably couldn’t name each one. 

“Not sure. Listen, I’ve just pulled into work.”

“All right, son.” There’s a moment he could hang up, but he knows his dad. He closes his eyes and knocks his head back on the head rest to wait for whatever it is he really called to say. “You will talk to him soon, yeah?”

“I dunno dad,” he says with more of a waver than he expected. He picks at his nails, then mentally curses himself because he needs to stay presentable for today. “This project is taking off, and there’s a case he’s consulting on in Paris. Might be sec until we sit down.” 

His dad hums in unapproving agreement, the way only parents can, “All right. Listen to your gut, it’ll know what to do.” 

He means well, but Stiles is pretty sure following his heart is exactly what got him into this mess.

“Bye dad.”

A punch of a button shuts the car off and he shoves himself out of the seat to escape it’s confinement. Outside the rain starts to soak his shoulders while the suffocating feeling remains. He hunches into the weather, grimacing at the splitting chill of the wind down the collar of his coat. With every step he tries to focus on the wet pavement beneath him to shake the vertigo that’s plagued him since the disorientation of waking up on the couch. 

Lydia calls out from the front desk as he passes but he’s too caught up on everything his dad’s phone call stirred up. Once upon a time there’d been exciting things to look forward to in Paris. Now he’s sure to spend the week in the office refining final drafts. By the time he realises he should have responded to the secretary he’s long past her station so he keeps moving forward, she’ll stop by if it’s important. Heavy glass gives way under his palm in time with a sigh of relief as he takes his first step into his office. It’s glass and steel with elegant cold LED lights better to see fine lines under, an impersonal world he is grateful to sink into. 

His moment of relief is cut short by a glance at the clock. He’s late, today of all days, and damn lucky his client isn’t already waiting for him. 

Stiles pushes his hair back, his touch disrupting it from it’s previously perfectly tousled state to bounce back onto his forehead. His hair is too short, he’s never liked it when it’s impossible to keep from sticking straight up, but he’d been convinced by a certain someone at the last barbar visit. With a bit more force he uses both hands to press it back again and hopes there’s enough product to keep it there.

The incessant buzz of his phone plies for his attention, something he should have seen coming, and he’s quick to flick it to silent and tuck it away. In a familiar stance he places his hands on his hips while standing in front of the floor to ceiling window taking up the back wall. He closes his eyes instead of staring at the expanse of clouds he’d been stunned by on his first day. He takes his hundredth deep breath of the morning. 

When he opens his eyes they’re sharp and keen. Eagerly he turns to the large display table he’d stressed over in the late hours of the night and scans the designs he’s slaved over for the better part of a year. Every measurement decimal is exactly the way he remembers leaving it. He’s fucking good at what he does. Pulling back from the gritty details his eyes coast along the shape of the plans, it’s wide open concept with smooth lines curving through the space to flow one area into another. Each element is unique, some bold, some minimized to keep from overwhelming and let the statements speak for themselves. It’s going to be stunning. 

A double-tap knock pulls his attention away. The man in the doorway has dark locks less tamed than Stiles’ and his loose t-shirt clings to an impressive show of muscle. There is only one person he could be. 

“Stiles, right?”

“Yes, welcome Mr. Hale,” Stiles’ limbs feel too long, his hand too large when he offers it for a casual handshake.

The artist is younger than Stiles has imagined, but people tend to say the same about himself. They’ve been in contact throughout the entire process, mostly via email to better send attached visuals than Stiles could ever describe over a phone call. Given his own profession and the personal nature of the building it had been surprising how little direction the artist gave. The bigger the name the bigger the ego, and his work was so well known you couldn’t avoid it walking down the street. T-shirts and keychains and posters in storefronts, everywhere you looked there was a Hale. 

“Peter is good, I’ll go by Mr. Hale when I have an identity crisis and not a moment before.”

Stiles’ harsh chuckle is a little more than the statement deserves, unable to silence the thoughts on what a crisis is possible of making you do. 

“It’s been a pleasure to take on this project,” Stiles says with a gesture to his night's work on the table, “would you like to dive in?”

“Sure,” Peter shrugs, obvious comfort in his loose shoulders and easy smile while Stiles guides them through the design.

Peter’s seen it all, but there’s something rather different about the physical plans in your hands and laying them together that can’t be imitated by any genius software. Stiles’ voice eases into a rhythmic cadence within less than a minute, consumed with pride at showing off the work and even greater, the easy way in which Peter follows along and prompts questions Stiles confidently has the answers for. This project is the largest scale Stiles has ever worked with, budget and build size. If all goes well Peter could be living in an award winning home and Stiles will be catapulted into stardom of his own. There are tweaks to be made, just as he knew there would be, and the flow of the meeting seamlessly breaks down from a presentation into a communal effort of ideas and feedback. Stiles feeds off of Peter’s reactions, using his presence to see the work through new eyes. 

Stiles isn't sure if it’s an artist thing or a Peter thing, the way the charismatic smiles and saccharine tone manages to create dazzling charm. He’s heard stories, like you do on any artist, about the tantrums and fits of rampant emotion. In fact most sources say the man’s been unreachable since the unveiling of his most provoking piece. Stiles took a glance at it when he earned Peter as a client, after all the fuss it honestly seemed like a rather boring painting. Despite his supposed seclusion he’s been answering Stiles’ emails and that’s all that really matters, but Stiles still struggles to picture this calm man in rumpled clothing as the unruly storm people proclaim defines Peter Hale.

“As the most recent email mentioned the last of the permits have gone through with the city. Given the adjustments we continue to make don’t impede on the core structure, construction may proceed once the ink is dry.” 

“Perfect,” Peter says simply and sits back in one of six overly ergonomic chairs around the table with the same agreeable quirk of his lips he’s had since the beginning of the morning. 

He’s comfortable enough to speak his opinion and mild mannered enough to be reasoned with when it’s clear Stiles’ has made a decision based on the knowledge he has as a professional. Friendly enough to sit in amiable silence while they sip freshly brewed mid-morning tea to give their minds and eyes a break. Stiles is leaning against the window behind his desk lost in pleasant relief at the way the easy working relationship between him and Peter has transferred well from email correspondence to in person when he catches sight of the small silver frame.

The picture is two mouths of shiny teeth on display with laughter, crinkles by both of their eyes as they press their cheeks together, fresh white gold glinting in the sunlight. He’d debated putting the photo in a drawer earlier in the week. It was such a happy moment though and despite everything he’s kind of glad he kept it up as he hides a small smile behind the teacup he’s holding mostly to warm his fingers. 

“Mr. Stilinski?” 

He looks over the rim to sleek strawberry blond curls, the secretary with an edge to her voice who’s never called him anything but Stiles since the day they swapped boy gossip. There’s a grim tone to her face instead of the dull expressions he’s used to. Stiles sets his cup on the desk. 

“Just a moment,” he murmurs to Peter, unsure if the man even notices anything but the screen of his phone. 

He steps onto the other side of the frosted glass that makes up his office walls and automatically takes the packet of paper handed to him. 

She won't meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Stiles. It was left in the mail slot.”

The file is thick and sealed, nothing to give it away but his name scrawled in a hand he’s used to seeing on notes stuck to the fridge. At the bottom there's a small lump, the perfect outline of a circle pressed into the envelope. For a long moment he can’t breathe, sound and air sucked out of the universe as time freezes. His thumb presses over the ridge of the circle, a perfect size nine if he had to guess, but he doesn’t need to. His stomach starts to revolt.

“Please tell Mr. Hale we’ll have to reschedule. I… “ he licks his lips, pushes down the bile in the back of his throat. The hand holding the papers shakes. “I feel ill.”

Blindly he takes off, barrelling towards the loo. Clammy fingers take a few fumbled attempts to tear into the envelope. It takes some work to tip out the contents, papers with words he can’t read. He doesn’t need to. The ring, the twin to his own that is now sitting in his palm, says everything. He drops it all like it’s laced with acid.

When he’s finished spilling everything his stomach has to give he sits back against the cool wall by the basin. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck and collects in every crease, unbuttoning his shirt to his navel has helped nothing and his hair is starting to spike at the ends where they cling to his skin. He knew it was coming, but it’s quite different to think about things in abstract than it is to have physical proof of failure. Fuck. Four years, for this? Throwing up on cold tile and an apartment full of ghosts? Stiles rests his elbow on the lip of the toilet seat, his head heavy in his palm and hair scrunched between thick fingers. Breathing takes an immense effort he’s starting to resent. Fuck this, marriage could go fuck itself. 

The edges of his phone dig into his thigh through the tight pocket of his trousers while kneeling and with stuttering, frustrated movements he digs it out to toss on top of the envelope in front of him. The screen lights up at the motion with the uncountable notifications he’s missed since silencing it this morning. All of them say something along the same vein: 

Ally:  
Happy Birthday you old fart!!

x

It’s horrible. It’s perfect. The bar he chose between their places serves something decent enough not to offend, but on a weekend it’s too noisy to hear half the words they’re saying even when they press close. After stilted conversation yelled into each other's ears they leave with the grand idea of going for a walk. What they didn’t consider is the weather. Near instantly they’re uncomfortably damp. Ten minutes later the rain lets up and the clouds recede enough for a few hues of sunset to spill in. Typical. Cold and full of nervous energy his date still insists on dragging them another few blocks to a neighbourhood Stiles has never been in.

Away from the crush of the crowd they’re free to talk the entire time, the words flowing just as easily as they did the week before. It’s an instant click in humour and personality Stiles is pleased and yet baffled by. A small green space crammed into the busy buildings comes into view and Stiles realises their destination instantly.

“We’re not exactly children. Least, I’m not. Jury's still out on you.” 

Stiles gets a shove to the stomach for his smirk. He feels at ease, confident despite the waylayed plans. 

“Take a seat, jerk.”

Stiles’ legs are too long and his coordination rather off, giving him the grace of a baby giraffe in the swing. Still he manages to get enough of a rhythm down to get him swaying back and forth. The memory of doing this as a kid makes him sweetly nostalgic. 

“Close your eyes.” Stiles does as he’s told. “Keep going. Wait until you’re the highest you think you’ll be, then open.” 

A smile plays on his lips as he listens, doing as told and pushing until he’s convinced it’s the highest he’ll make it. He opens his eyes. Streaming pinks and bruising purples swell in front of him. The air is punched out of him at the sight of nothing but clouds painted in saturated light. Gravity pulls him backwards and down to earth, but his eyes don’t leave the sky, trying to mesmerize each swirl above him every time momentum pushes him forward. 

The silence is the first to clue him in. The excitement of a first date has left little room for a silent moment since they greeted each other. Now there’s only the rush of the wind and faint groans of the chains. Stiles looks over. With eyes closed and a soft smile the man beside him is the epitome of peace as the world pushes and pulls as it pleases. Gently the swing starts to slow until Stiles’ feet drag on the dirt. 

When they’re both swaying idly, legs tangled together like teenagers, Stiles listens to him talk. 

“Gonna say something really overtop, I‘m warning you,” his lips slant in a shy grin and Stiles’ heart flares at the vulnerability he sees beneath it, “but I’ve been doing it since I was little, always calms me down. Think it’s something about knowing there’s a whole universe around us. You just gotta look up and it’s there.” 

Stiles reaches out to takes his hand, letting their legs slip apart so they’re tethered only by their palms. He glances at the sky again, not quite the same when he’s not staring it straight in the face. 

“I’ve never thought much about the universe,” Stiles admits. 

“S’alright, it doesn’t think about us much either.”

Stiles can’t decide if that’s a relief or worrying. 

It seems like a blink and the sky’s colours are swallowed by the darkness of night. They sit on the swings talking until their throats are raw from use and the dropping temperature can’t be ignored. Stiles is warmed by a glowing ball of contentment and peels off the large sweater still dry under his coat to hand over. A leather jacket and t-shirt can’t be nearly enough when the shaking in the man’s voice is more from shivers than excitement. Just as he thought, the soft blue cotton is a perfect match for bright ocean eyes. The sight makes a flare of satisfaction burn in him, and maybe it’s a tad barbaric but Stiles tries to reason his pleasure stems more from being able to make the man comfortable than any sense of false claim his hoodie could try to stake. 

They walk back to Stiles’ holding hand. On the doorstep Stiles tugs him so close they’re sharing breath, relishing the thrill of the moment as they catch each other looking at one another's lips. Their mutual huff of laughter is visible in small clouds. They move forward in sync for their first kiss. A hint of beer still lingers and his lips are cold from the night air, Stiles chases after them when they pull away with his hand reaching out to sink into soft locks. Every thought in Stiles’ mind vanishes, leaving nothing but the physical feeling of a warm body against his to consume his senses. They have their second, then third kiss, deepening every time until they’re swaying in place with the weight of each other. With another soft chuckle they part and shyly wipe their mouths. 

His date slowly walks down the steps, having fulfilled his gentlemanly duty of walking him home and wishing him a goodnight. He turns with a grin and they share a stupid little wave as Stiles closes the door. Once it’s shut Stiles stares at the back of his door, his blood boiling. He thought he could wait and do this a bit more properly, but the patience he’d been clinging to all night was barely there to start and the kiss has awakened a pit of desire within him. He flings the door open.

He’s still there, sheepishly stammering an excuse for lingering but Stiles is more relieved than anything. 

“Derek,” Stiles has nervous tremors despite the bright eyes shining hopefully at him. Stiles wets his lips and clings to the doorframe, “please stay?”

An eager mouth meets his, a restless body thrown against him with vigour that knocks them backwards with lips connected. They stumble over the threshold and fall into each other. 

x

Time blurs while nothing exists but work. The adjustments he spoke of with Peter are small but many and Stiles takes his time finding ways to make them without disrupting the flow of space, knowing from experience too many little things out of line add up to glaring discord.

The days start early under grey city skies and more than one grueling traffic jam. The rhythm of driving does little to temper his sour mood when it feels like his head has replaced the brake pedal and his foot relentlessly stomps on it throughout the week. Not by luck but rather meticulous planning the building is cold and empty when he arrives, just as it is when he left earlier in the unspeakable hours of the day. 

Mr. Finstock occupies the first office in Stiles’ hall, the only other early riser on this floor, and Stiles knows he enjoys being the first customer of the day at the cafe two blocks down. The erratic private investor habitually walks in at ten past the hour with a steaming travel mug plastered with his children’s faces. If Stiles doesn’t get in before him there’s no way to reach his own office without being roped into a round of pleasantries that always ends in parenting advice. The last thing Stiles needs. 

In the safe confines of frosted walls he hand draws every idea they tossed around in the stacks of tracing paper on the built in light board at his desk. Paper cuts start adding up. The fine tip of his favourite mechanical pencil continuously breaks until he tosses it across the room and roots around for another, cheaper, utensil. The first three are out of graphite and the fourth is missing the eraser. At that point he takes what he can get. 

Every day Lydia comes in with tea and leaves it at his elbow. By the evening he’s pulled out his smudged glasses and works on inputting everything he’s done by hand into the software he has little patience for. The fourth time he nearly knocks a full ice-cold cup across his desk onto proofs he doesn’t have copies of he has to ask her through gritted teeth and a false smile to stop.

Night swoops in with a blanket of darkness. At the end of the week, finally satisfied with the progress he’s made in the staircase transitions, he sits back in his chair and rubs the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up his face. The rest of the building is peacefully vacant with half lit halls. With the flat black of cloud covered night behind him the windowed wall looks like the gaping mouth of a black hole. Silence surrounds his floating glass cube of light. On the screen before him the software is rendering the day's work, nothing he can do until it’s done and by that point he knows he’ll be useless. He stretches his legs out and basks in the last moments of pretense that life outside the bubble of his office is unchanged. 

The drawer clicks open slowly to reveal a face down silver photo frame and the innocuous manilla envelope with his scrawled name. Stiles reaches in and takes out the phone he’d shoved there at the beginning of the day and closes the drawer. Phone calls missed from his dad and a matching number of voice messages. An email from Peter he’s already replied to from his work devices. A meme from Allison. Texts from Scott. 

Stiles taps his fingers on the case of the phone. Scott’s been friends with both of them for so long he can’t recall who knew who first. He’s also become their default ‘sleeping on the couch’ option, and it’s not Scott’s fault he’s got an actual guest room to stay in unlike the rest of their friends. Stiles can’t blame him for offering safe harbour. Scott was adamant about never taking sides, making it obtusely clear when he’d insisted on being best man for both or neither at the wedding. They each have keys for his place by now, given under the guise of ‘emergencies’ while Scott was off traveling the country for work, but Stiles wonders if it should have been a sign he paid more attention to. 

Puppy:  
Drinks?

Stiles thinks through the rest of the week. Peter’s been getting more vocal and shooting out new ideas a little late in the process, leaving Stiles the uncomfortable position of either starting the lengthy process of accommodating the changes, in turn marring his relationship with the engineering team he’d already given a timeline, or putting his foot down to keep the project on schedule and risk alienating Peter and his potential referrals. Walking this fine line would undoubtedly keep him late at the office for the rest of the week, not to mention the undoubtable fact the emotional turmoil ‘drinks’ with Scott was going to require more time to recover from than a simple hangover. Definitely a Saturday thing.

S:  
Saturday?

Puppy:  
:(  
Prolly no go, I’ll be out of town.  
Sorry bud. Been booked for months. 

Stiles’ brow creases. Scott’s been working the desk all month, something he knows for a fact because they’d been planning on ambushing him with doughnuts and coffee near the end to celebrate his upcoming raise everyone knew was coming. Now Stiles realises he’ll probably need to make sure they don’t go on the same day. 

S:  
F you doin out of office?

Puppy:  
Look @ calender 

A few taps on the touch screen and there it is, so obvious it’s painful. A glaring ‘14’ on Saturday. Valentine's Day. 

Stiles throws his phone on the desk. He sinks his face into his hands and groans with frustration, with anger, with fucking everything he’s been through with a man that wont even look at him anymore. 

They knew it was a ridiculous thing to do. That’s the worst part of it all, right as they were signing the marriage certificate in the tropics they’d shared a disbelieving look and half hysterical giggles, amazed by their own recklessness. How quickly he fell for pretty blue eyes. Right up to the moment he remembers convincing himself the nerves he felt stemmed from his sense of adventure and not his conscience trying to reason with him. He dry washes his face and admits to himself in a tiny petulant thought that his dad had been right and he probably bit his tongue every time he talked to Stiles to hold back his well earned ‘I told you so.’

Everything’s turned out to be an absolute waste of time. Whatever love they’d had was obviously worth shit if it was so easily dismantled. They’d both sworn vows before they signed the bloody thing so he’s not the only one at fault here. 

With a loud crack the drawer protests as he yanks it open so hard it’s contents slam into each other. The envelope tears further in his clenched hold. In a move of spiteful vindication he reaches under the desk and slots the document into the shredder. Tiny mechanical sounds of destruction do nothing to replicate the tearing in his chest. 

x

“Pivot! Pivot!” Stiles calls up the stairs. 

“You’re not nearly as hilarious as you think you are.”

Stiles snickers while hauling the last of the boxes into the house that still smells of lemon cleaner. The moving crew had done most of the work, leaving them with just a few boxes of delicates they’d wanted to handle personally and the things they’d kept out for the days leading up to the move. The Move. It’s been capitalized in his phone calendar for weeks. Waking this morning to see today’s date was surreal, like sleepwalking he was moving through the motions without fully comprehending the implications of his empty apartment and the freshly cut key in his pocket. 

He’s giddy, like he tends to be whenever Derek’s around and if he’s honest, has been since they met. Willingly he’s resigned himself to never getting over this twisting swell of warmth that fills him every second he breathes the same air as his boyfriend. How he ever lived a day without him is impossible to fathom. He wonders if Derek knows just how much of a hold he has on Stiles. How just the sight of him makes Stiles’ heart clench. He must. He will. Stiles spends the moment it takes to settle the box onto another without fear of collapse to remind himself to tell Derek of these thoughts tonight, their first night in their new bed, in their new room, in their new place. 

Stiles looks up to see where Derek’s wandered off. His pale silhouette stands in the living room like a marble cut statue basked in light by the big windows, his hands absently tugging at oversized sleeves and his gaze slowly scanning the room. Stiles’ ribs clench unforgivingly around his lungs. He’s struck with it then, like a lightning of understanding he realizes Derek’s envisioning it; their home. The life they’re going to lead here, together. 

His sweater is soft the way he prefers anything not his uniform to be and a patch of stubble he missed on his chin, likely because he was rushing. He’s always rushing these days, chasing after Stiles as they run amuck with a reckless abandon Stiles hasn’t given into since he was a school boy.. It only makes moments like this, still and tender, all the more poignant. 

Keeping his footsteps light Stiles comes within a fingerbreadth behind Derek, watching the minute adjustment Derek’s muscles make with every breath. ‘David’ may be renowned for his beauty, but marble could never hope to imitate the grace of a heartbeats symphony beneath soft pink skin. Gently his arms wrap from behind until his hands rest on Derek’s tummy. Derek presses his back lightly into his chest in a habitual way, Stiles completing the hold by ducking to press his face into Derek’s shoulder. 

“It’s really ours,” Derek murmurs with wonder.

Stiles nudges a smile into the crook of his neck, leaving a little kiss on the warm skin there. “Really is.”

“Never been more grateful for those fancy paychecks.”

Stiles chuckles, also relieved by the new client who’s project will be paying for a good chunk of the place, although Derek’s actually got the lionshare on the title when it comes down to it. Stiles is not the only one that likes to watch his ass in a uniform. The place is much closer to his office, a bonus he wasn’t looking for but is pleased with. The less time driving is more time spent in bed in the mornings, more time to cuddle in front of the TV at the end of the day. His hands press through the layers on Derek’s hips just to feel the shape of him. Derek surrenders more weight to him and rests his head back on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Your hair’s growing out,” he muses, nose scrunching like a mouse when Stiles shakes his head so the tips of his hair purposefully tickle Derek’s face.

“Do I need a trim?” 

“No, I like it.” Derek sinks a hand into the curls, “Very first season Rachel.”

Stiles shoves him away with a scoff at the comparison. Heat sparks at the sight of Derek’s playful smile while the man with tactical training trips back towards the bedroom, his teasing look flitting over his shoulder to get the trajectory right but Stiles knows one day he’ll have every inch of this place mapped out. One day they’ll have removed the plastic cover from the couch and they’ll soak it in sweat. One day they’ll find a rug for the fireplace and Derek will press open mouthed moans into it. For now Stiles stalks him down the hall.

They’ll need to be quick with Scott coming round to help set up some of the furniture. If they’re lucky he’s taken pity on them and already plans to bring dinner. Even if their kitchen was unpacked, Derek’s skills never really surpassed boiling water and Stiles will be damned if he steps foot over the doorway once more after a day of lugging boxes across it. It’ll be nice to catch up over takeout, Scott’s undoubtedly full of hilarious coworker stories too long to mention in the brief moments crammed between work and sleep, where he’s managed to sneak in quick facetimes usually involving a closeup of his forehead and/or nostrils as he moved from place to place. 

Once the rubbish is cleared and the furniture is built Scott will pat him on the back and promise to call later in the week, the door will close softly behind him, and Stiles will go to bed with Derek next to him. One of their last firsts. 

x

“Stiles,” 

Stiles startles at his desk. Lydia’s at his doorway, still not quite as comfortable around him since the envelope episode but at least they were back to first names. He sent flowers to the front desk last week as an apology for leaving her to deal with Peter and how the envelope had placed her in the position of being the unfortunate catalyst to his breakdown. It was the only thing he did that came close to marking the heart circled holiday. Her nails are a brilliant turquoise that remind Stiles of crystal clear waters in the tropics and the face down frame in his drawer. 

“I’m ordering lunch today, did you want a bite?” 

“I’m alright.” His can’t quite manage a smile and his lips straighten into something closer to a grimace. 

She eyes him with disbelief, not quite concern but verging on it. Stiles should have let her keep delivering the tea. 

“I’ll order extra, just in case.”

Stiles deflates when she leaves. He’s a grown man, he has a fancy degree, there is no excuse for his secretary feeling like she’s the only reason he hasn’t keeled over. The worst of it is, she is. He hasn’t eaten anything that hasn’t been inconspicuously placed in the corners of his office to snack on when the pit of his stomach can’t be ignored. Food has truly been the last of his thoughts. 

He hasn’t talked to Scott since he’s been back in town, both busy with work and unsure of how to approach a conversation when there’s an elephant staying in Scott’s guest room. It’s not really something he wants to discuss over the phone and their schedules haven’t aligned to make it happen in person. He knows Scott supports him, but damn. It would be nice to have a hug right about now. 

Telling Allison was easier than he thought it would be. His old coworker had been mid rant during a lunch break call.

“I’m serious, Stiles, every time I walk by she smells so strongly of ham I get flashbacks of my fathers feet. Which would be fine, my dad started wearing socks eventually so maybe she’s still on her hygiene journey, but she’s contributed next to nothing on the new project. I think Harris’ permanent grimace of doom has gotten deeper. There’s no night cream in the world that’ll help that man.”

“If you’re going to tell her please do it nicely. Some people just don’t know, it’s not her fault.” Stiles says, feering for his replacement's reaction to being exposed to the full brunt of Allison’s judgement. 

He’s pretty sure he’s not been listened to when Allison gasps like she’s been stung by a bee, a common occurence Stiles has actually witnessed a few times, something about Allison’s personality tends to attract bugs. Maybe it was the perfume. 

“You should ask about the vitamin C cream your man uses. He’s like a baby-faced angel and Harris could use some brightening.” She says, like it’s a brilliant idea. 

“Actually, uh…” He shifts his weight and puts a hand on the work table for support, “We’re getting a divorce.” 

Allison gasps twice as loud, “You what?” Stiles just hums and let’s Allison work through it. “Babes, you tell me if you need anything at all. Ally will strangle a man, I swear.” 

“Thanks, uhm. Probably unnecessary but good to know the offers there.” He says weakly. 

“Damn Stiles,” and Allison really sounds serious now, a rare thing, “How are you feeling?”

Stiles shrugs awkwardly with his forehead pinched, glad no one’s there to see how his body curls inwards. 

“Still figuring that out, I think.” 

Allison makes a few tsks, her natural exuberance returning. “You, me, my place. I’ve got a bottle of rosé with our names on it and cheap beer to wash it down.” 

Stiles’ eyes might get a little wet from the fierceness of his friend's loyalty, but he’ll save that for the rosé. 

“Yes, please.”

They sort plans for the weekend before Allison’s lunch is up. Stiles clears his eyes and shakes himself back into work mode. What he sees makes his brows furrow. 

He stands over the desk and rests his hands on his hips. The perfect designs he had presented are now checkered with correction marks. Everyday it seems there’s a new list from Peter, questions and suggestions Stiles can only dodge half of and still keep the man in his favour. He chews the inside of his cheek. He apologized for the abrupt end to their meeting and Peter had taken it well, but now Stiles thinks he should have stuck it out. 

Obviously Peter had more to say about the work than he’d gotten to in their morning working together. The thought of that nags at Stiles, who’s used to getting a good read off of people fairly quickly, something that’s helped him in the past with client relations and knowing instantly if they were truly pleased or if he should needle them for their honest opinion. Peter had seemed so genuine in his ‘Do what you think’s good’ attitude. Maybe Stiles really is having an identity crisis. 

A plate of fries finds its way near his elbow while he’s going over the window alignments. He munches on them absently while crunching the numbers. Engineering isn’t his profession, but he didn’t go to university for nothing and he knows enough about load bearing and structural integrity to be frustrated trying to balance Peter’s requests that keep chipping away at key pillars while maintaining cornered windows. Trying to cast a spell to float the second floor would take less effort. 

He’s writing, with tenuous professionalism, a list of electrical codes he’d have to break in order to fulfil Peter’s newest obsession and his subsequential reasoning for the original design when an email pops up into his inbox. He catches the blurb preview on the notification:

Subject: Renew Your Subscription!  
_Mr. Stilinski, we’d hate to see you go! If you’d like to keep your annual subscription please follow the link…_

It's a newspaper subscription he gifted last year. Neat stacks of them are piled around the apartment, the favourite editions with big names or friends faces were always close at hand. Occasionally Stiles has flipped through some to keep current, an attempt to understand where all that time was being spent. Won't be needing that anymore. With a sigh he reaches for his phone so he won't have to navigate away from his current draft. The email is easy to find at the top of the list and he clicks the link. It takes him to the newspaper’s website with a wide spread picture of this month's issue. 

On screen a face he knows every minute detail of gives him a fierce challenging stare. Stiles closes his eyes for a deep breath. There were always cases going to trial and being blown out of proportion, but he can’t even recall hearing about this particular one. Something must have been said, you don’t just land on the cover of a prestigious newspaper and not say anything. Stiles looks closer at the screen. He’s clean shaven, a rarity, and his hair tousled in a way he’d be embarrassed about. It must have been over a month ago. All Stiles can remember from a month ago is a permit falling through and agonizing hours at the office reconfiguring the layout. Did they even hold a conversation that wasn’t around a toothbrush or with one of them halfway out the door? 

He cancels the subscription. 

His thumb hovers over a message from Scott. It was sent days ago and Scott’s giving him space by not hammering him for a response, because he’s a good friend. Stiles is a shit friend though so he locks the screen and pockets the phone.

Light fades until the night has swallowed the outside world around him. He’s made zero progress since licking his fingers clean of salt from the fries. His eyes are bleary from looking over the same equations for countless hours in a way that tells him it’s absolutely useless. If he’s honest, the last few hours have been knowingly wasted. All can see is the accusing glare of the magazine cover and like foolishly shredding the documents, he’s just putting off the inevitable.

Peter sends another email and before Stiles even reads it he types back a quick response. 

M. G. Stilinski:  
No.

With a groan Stiles flops backwards into his chair with instant regret. Fuck. Nevermind the foot, he’s just shot himself in the fucking face. The chair isn’t low enough. Slowly he curls over and drops to the floor and lands on his back with little grace. Beneath the low hum of the building's HVAC system and the janitors trolly squeaking down the hall, the sound of Stiles’ heart thuds in his eardrums. This is it. This is his crisis.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to the ceiling. To the sky above. To the universe in which he is just a speck. 

He’s twenty six and laying on the floor of an office he’s going to have to sell because he can’t finish this project without strangling his client and did he mention? He’s going to be a divorcee. So tonight he’ll go back to an apartment he’s going to have to sell because he can’t be in a marriage without alienating the person he used to love. 

The breath knocked out of him at the thought. Used to. It’s the first time he’s admitted their love is truly a past tense verb, and it probably has been for awhile. He thinks back to the start, the first time they met at some stupid party. The person he used to be back then is a stranger. Their relationship stood on a basis of youthful exhilaration they’ve grown out. They could try a thousand times over and Stiles is pretty sure it would always end up here, with him on the floor. A failure.

When the janitors trolly squeaks closer Stiles finds the strength to straighten himself onto two feet and slowly wraps himself in his coat. Smooth lines of the empty hall do little to please him on his way out. A comforting sense of awe used to sweep him up everytime he walked through this building, which was exactly why he chose it for his homebase. It's pretentious air earned him a low whistle and saucy grin for being a ‘big shot’ when he’d left Harris&Co. to incorporate his own name. He’d been propelled by the urge to create a legacy, something to be proud of when he’s eighty-five and looking back at what he’s accomplished. Perhaps it was a jump he’d taken earlier than he might have truly been ready for, but it seems he’s got a knack for not thinking things through. 

Glass walls didn’t make for a lot of privacy, even if they were frosted, so hands had always been kept to themselves on the few personal visits. He’s glad of it now. This one small space was completely devoted to him and his career, everything else in his life was a weight he feels lifted from him every time he enters, and similarly feels piled back on his shoulders every time he leaves. 

Neverending city drizzle catches him on his way out. The radio in the Rover has been muted since last week when they played nothing but love songs for the entire duration of his commute. Only by the steady hum of rainfall and his wipers intermittent swipe accompanies him. The flat is dark. It’s a shock even when he prepares for it while turning the key. So different from the warm glow of lamps, the buzz of a TV on in the background, smells of dinner from the kitchen with pop songs being hummed by the stove. 

Stiles slips his shoes off in the dark entryway. On the way to the sofa his jacket gets thrown on the lounge chair they erroneously bought for guests they never had. He falls into the large grey sofa cushions face first. The blanket he tosses under isn’t the one they’ve kept out for movie cuddling, it’s fresh from the closet of spares and smells like a department store. 

Tomorrow he’ll wake and dress in clothes different yet the same. Then he’ll go to work and hunch over whatever issues Peter’s poked in the plans, different yet the same. He’ll tell himself it’s exactly where he should be. Not in Paris celebrating an anniversary. 

x

There has never been a moment more perfect than the one he’s currently living. Earlier today had been near, walking hand in hand under light snowflakes with spontaneously bought hot cocoa. Derek's nose had been bright red in the cold and Stiles had scalded his tongue so they’d made an agreement that Stiles’ cheek could warm Derek’s nose if he’d kiss Stiles’ tongue better and they’d been outrageously late to dinner with flushed faces. Yeah, that’d been pretty close. 

Now the warm weight of Derek in his lap and they’re sharing soft slow kisses filled with sleepy sighs. They sink into clouds of softness surrounding them, somehow he’d convinced Derek to buy an excessive amount of pillows and the fluffiest pale pink duvet they could find, making their bed more of a plush nest. There’s no rush, nowhere it’s leading, only enjoyment of this simple act. The day has worn them out and tomorrow promises to be even busier with gifts and family and so much food they won't want to eat for a week. That’s tomorrow, right now they’re sighing into each other's mouths and fondness swells in him when he notices Derek can hardly keep his eyes open. 

“Babe,” he murmurs.

Derek hums in response, shifting his weight pleasantly. Stiles is distracted by the tip of his finger slipping further under Derek’s briefs and the wet mouth on his neck. He can’t screw this up though, so he concentrates and tries again. 

“Babe, there’s one more present.”

“Too many already, give it to me ’morrow.”

Stiles knocks his head back into the pillows, at once completely annoyed and enamoured with the man in his arms. Since when is there such a thing as too many presents?

“You’ll want this one, Der. Promise.” 

He needs monumental will power to slide away from beneath the gorgeous creature sucking lovebites into his collarbone, but he convinces himself it’s for the greater good. 

“Stiles,” Derek whines when he slumps onto his side. 

Stiles pulls away and stretches across the mattress to dig into the bedside drawer. When Stiles turns back with a hand behind his back, Dereks already curled around a pillow, his mouth parted in light slumber. Stiles rolls to press close with a small smile as Derek sleepily blinks his eyes open, their noses inches away. 

“I bought this when I had a dream about you.”

“Bet I can guess how the dream ended,” Derek smirks, his eyes flicking down past Stiles’ waist and back with a suggestive arch in his eyebrows. And okay, it wouldn’t be the first time Stiles had bought something fun for them to use, but he’s trying to have a moment here. 

“You were dressed in this dream, surprisingly,” Stiles huffs, “and laughing at me like you are now, but there was one thing different.”

“Whazzat?” Derek hums, amusement mixing with curiosity. 

“You were wearing this.” 

Stiles nudges the little open box onto the pillow between their faces and watches Derek struggle to focus on it. Once he does his eyes widen comically. 

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

There’s a volcano erupting in the pit of his stomach at the wide eyed shock on Derek’s face, both of them battling to keep their faces straight to match the hushed gravity of their voices. 

Derek says it slow, each word dragged, “Are you marrying me?” 

Stiles hums in false thought, his eyebrows creasing for show while his body breaks into a sweat beneath the sheets, “Dunno, someone hasn’t said yes.”

“Someone hasn’t asked a question.” Derek's face starts to crack into a twitching smile, his words quickening. 

“Derek Solomon Ha-” 

“Yes. Fuck yes, I do.”

Their teeth clack and the sheets bunch as Derek pounces on him with a cascade of kisses. They keep having to break off as bouts of giddy laughter spill from them and stretch their lips too wide to keep up a kiss. Stiles runs his hands over every inch of Derek he can find, squeezing the warm skin of his chest, palming the thick thighs wrapped around him, sinking into the soft hair at the base of his neck. Forever. He imagines having this man forever and he’s greedy for it to start now. 

Between kisses and the sleepy grinding they’ve settled into as the exhaustion of the day once again tugs at them Stiles whispers into the space behind Derek’s ear, “Happy Birthday.”

“No no, it’s past midnight.” Derek pulls back with a few quick pecks to Stiles’ face and a little nip on his bottom lip like he can’t help himself before he gives Stiles a cheeky look, “Merry Christmas, fiance.” 

He wiggles his eyebrows and Stiles' heart gives such a jolt he’s convinced it’s going to burst. 

x

“Fuck!” Stiles slams the break and punches the horn. “Get a pair of eyes, idiot!” He calls through the windshield at the jackass flipping him off after walking into the street with his head down. 

The guy takes his time shuffling out the way while Stiles grips the wheel with white knuckles. As soon as the way is clear he rips forward in a squeal of rubber. His shoulders are tense the rest of the drive, his jaw clenched. The way people can be so careless with their own lives is unfathomable. 

“Ridiculous,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

He slams the car door and marches into his building with heavy steps, ignoring the calls of his name in greeting. 

Peter Hale is sitting in his office. The back of his ravens nest hair is a slap in the face that throws Stiles so off balance he comes within inches of walking into the glass door. He pushes it open after a moment to solidify his relationship with gravity.

“Peter, hello,” he shakes the man’s hand while still pulling the rest of his office into focus. It’s a mess, papers and notes laid out on every surface resembling the state of mind he’d been in last night. “Must have slipped my mind today was our rescheduled appointment.” He knows there’s no way he would have forgotten, not when this date is burned into his mind like a smoking brand. 

Peter shrugs, “You didn’t forget. My favourite Indian place is down the street so thought I’d stop by.” 

And that’s the moment Stiles’ eyes widen as he remembers the last email he’d sent. Peter probably thinks he’s a conceited child.

“Apologies for the email last night, I believe there was confusion on my part and I replied to the wrong person. I’ll go over-”

Peter shrugs again, his face still soft and open, non-pulsed. “It’s okay Stiles, we were only throwing things out there. Malia got back from a trip with a friend's family and she’s got some creative ideas.” 

Yes. Stiles could tell, if those happened to be the ideas he was being emailed with in a constant stream throughout every day. His eyes flicker to Peter’s fingers, just as bare as he remembers them being last time they’d met. Stiles tries not to let his thoughts show, the thoughts that making substantial changes to your multi-million pound home on the whim of some woman you hadn’t married yet was… maybe what he should expect from someone like Peter. Hell, even Scott didn’t quite understand relationships that went deeper than the exchange of shiny things for pretty smiles. Maybe they’re on the same wavelength. 

"Yes, her influence has been lovely.” He says with maybe a tad too much force. 

“What time do you take lunch? We could stop by later,” Peter says pleasantly, with his pleasant smile. 

Rain water runs down the side of Stiles’ face from the car to office dash he makes every morning because he keeps forgetting his umbrella. He eyes the catastrophic mess of his office. Ten minutes for lunch would be a stretch. A full hour? 

“Today might not be the best, I’ve got a… “ he gestures at the table covered in papers and nibs of erasers and pencils, then sees the peaceful look on Peter’s face. 

Frustration clenches in his fist. He can’t afford to lose the reputation built by this project, and Peter’s proven to be an enigma of a person. Stiles can’t tell if he’s truly bothered by anything because the last time he assumed things were fine it landed him here. It’s possible, even probable, if Peter leaves he’ll tell his wife or girlfriend or whomever and Stiles will lose all chances of kickstarting a legacy he can be proud of.

“If you tell me the address I can be there for one?” 

Peter nods. If he’s surprised it doesn’t show. 

By the time Stiles has re-discovered how to use his filing system and returned his office into a place of vast empty surfaces he’s nearly late. In a small act of kindness the place is easy to find and the rain has stopped so he doesn’t repeat his appearance of a drowned rat. The restaurant is nice, homey in a way chains could never be no matter how hard they tried to find the right shade of sun burnt walls. He bounces a pressed smile off of the staff as he makes his way to where Peter is already lounging in a small booth. 

Not until he’s scanning through the menu does he realize he can’t eat any of it if he wants to keep his tongue and stomach intact. His dad calls him a delicate flower, but Stiles thinks he’s normal and people who need to eat literal fire to taste something are the issue. He sets the stock card down, resigned to a meal of rice and naan bread. It might still qualify as the largest meal he’s had in weeks. 

Peter relaxes into the padded booth after they order. 

“Malia couldn't make it, I’ll probably bring her by next time. She’s very excited to meet you “

“I look forward to it,” Stiles lies through a professional smile. 

Peter might narrow his eyes a little, but he doesn’t comment on the lack of colour on Stiles’ plate when the food arrives. The silence as they chew is not as easy as it had been in the office although Stiles is quick to forget it when he gets more than a mouthful of food in his belly and realises just how much he’s missed eating. He’s trying not to resemble a starving dog crouched over it’s hard won meal when Peter speaks up. 

“We were talking about the windows upstairs, maybe framing them with a reading nook instead of the wall length.”

Stiles’ mind blanks, forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. It’s like his subconcious is protecting him from the consequences of murder by tucking away every emotional reaction he could have to the question. His head stays ducked down and inches away from the fork as his eyes flick to Peter’s. They hold false warmth just like their owner. 

He focuses on setting his fork down slowly, dizzy with sudden exhaustion. Altering the windows is going to ruin the whole flow and quality of daylight within the spaces, which had been meticulously calculated when mapping out the placement of wired in lighting fixtures to assimilate the rotation of the sun. 

“Is there something wrong with what’s in place now?” He manages to ask with hands clenched under the table.

“No, it’s nice, but Malia was thinking-”

“But you loved those windows.” Stiles blurted. 

He can’t let it go, and he doesn’t want to know what gig thought. There’s a clench in his gut. It had been Peter’s idea in the first place to work the house like a clock. Stiles loved it too and he’d run with it until the whole concept of the house relied on it. They’d worked it out long before the holidays. Stiles’ face scrunched as he took in Peter’s comfortable position slouched back on his side of the booth, a slip of a smile playing on his lips. Was one of the most popular artistic minds of this decade really compromising his ideas for a passing muse? 

Peter shrugged, “It’s neat, yes. Maybe we’ll keep them like this, I’m sure she’ll forget about it anyway. She was more interested in the slide anyways.”

Ah yes. The slide they’d added next to the stairs, something Peter had been convinced was a stroke of genius. Stiles hums. Didn’t Peter realise he was setting himself up for disaster? 

He picks, or more accurately stabs, at the food left on his plate until it’s a mess and he recognizes that he can’t swallow another bite. The waiter clears the dishes away. Stiles dabs at his mouth with the cloth napkin and twists it in his lap. 

“Did you catch the news?”

Stiles shakes his head, detaching it from his previous thoughts and swerving into the new topic. Narrowly manages to control his face.

“No, uh,” he clears his throat, “not really one for current events.”

“Me either, or wouldn’t be except I have a concerned relative who keeps jabbering on and you start soaking it in like what’s it called, that science term?”

“Osmosis?” Stiles arches a brow. 

Peter smiles softly, his thumb running over his lip like he’s self conscious, “Right. Never made it to college.”

“Your parents must be so disappointed,” Stiles jokes, glad to be on a new topic, “you’re only what? The greatest artist of our lifetime.”

Peter’s laugh is the strangest thing Stiles has heard from him so far, a giggle that pulls his face into a new shape like a six year old. It’s so ridiculous Stiles can’t help join in. The lull of silence after is much easier to handle. Stiles smooths the napkin flat on his thighs and leans back in his own booth. 

“What made you become an artist?” 

He’s genuinely curious, always has been when it comes to other artists. Stiles’ work might include more maths than he’d have ever predicted for himself, but when it came down to it he considered himself an artist all the same. It was not a love of figures that kept him tied to his desk, it was a drive to create, to design, to inspire emotion. A passion only seen in other true artists. 

Peter’s answer isn’t as quick as he’d thought it would be. His lips purse in concentration, his eyes glazed in deep thought. 

“There’s an immeasurable amount of emotions human beings are capable of. Everyone tells me I feel too much, but it’s the way I am. I’d look at a flower and I couldn’t enjoy the beauty my wife saw, I’d get caught up in the frailty that makes its beauty ephemeral.” His lips quirk to break the seriousness of his tone, “But words weren’t really my thing. Painting was the only way I could express that to her.”

Stiles stares at the man who picks a stray bit of rice out of his stubble like he hasn’t admitted to seeing the world through somber lenses. 

“Do you paint a lot for your wife?” 

He doesn’t mean to pry, yet the honesty of the moment is magnetic and Stiles is desperate to hear about someone else’s emotions so he doesn’t have to reflect on his own. 

Peter shakes his head and leans forward with his forearms on the table.

“Not just her. Usually there’s someone in mind, something that happened maybe, and I feel it out on canvas until the emotion has worked its way through.” 

“Sounds like a trip.” 

Sounds cathartic, actually, and Stiles bite back his jealousy. If only communicating emotions were as easy as smearing paint on paper. 

Peter hums in agreement, “Seriously. Gotta make sure food’s already been had if I’m gonna pick up a brush, otherwise I’ll forget and work through the whole day.” 

Stiles recalls numerous times he’s come home to a plate of cold food with a cringe. 

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

They pay the bill and part ways amiably. When they’re not talking about the project Stiles thinks he could get along with Peter quite well. Hopefully he’s managed to imbue some of his charming self into Peter’s impression to wipe away the disaster he’s portrayed recently. 

He walks to the office with light steps. He’d finally flicked the radio back on during his return to the office and they’d been playing something new and catchy. Stiles sits back in the office chair. Cautiously his fingers tap the trackpad to brighten the screen. He squints at the default search engine home page, hesitating over the keyboard.

He sits back and runs his hand through his hair with a shaky breath. One thing at a time. Scott’s his second speed dial, right after his dad. 

“Stiles!”

“Scott,” He feels warmth pour over him at the enthusiastic tone of his best friend. 

“Dude, you won't believe how pretty the new girl at Lucky’s Coffee is. She gives me free muffins when her boss isn’t around and I’m floating, man. This is the natural high.”

Stiles smiles through Scott’s ramble, giddy just picturing the way he’s probably bouncing on his toes with excitement. 

“Are you going to have to take up running again to burn them off?”

“Hey,” Scott whines, “I still have my youthful metabolism, let me enjoy it.” 

“I’m just surprised you know how to say the word metabolism. Are you studying up to impress her?”

“Pfft, you’re just jealous dude,” A stalling silence shatters the joking tone into awkward regret, “Shit, I’m sorry Stiles.”

“Don’t be. Not like we didn’t see it coming.”

Scott makes a pained sound like he doesn’t know what to say. Stiles picks at the smooth leather of the armrest. It’s not the first time one of them has been in his guest room recently. Not even the first time this year, and it’s barely two months in. 

“How is he?”

“Nah, you know I can’t do that.” 

Stiles sighs. He knows. 

“I just…” He knows he’s whining, but if he can’t tell Scott the truth then who can he tell? “I miss him.” 

“I know,” Scott sighs, probably lost for anything better to say and Stiles doesn’t blame him. He swivels a little in the chair. ”You guys seem pretty serious this time. Really no hope of working it out?”

“No, we- I-” He thinks of the empty bed, the silent kitchen, and huffs. “We made a mess of it. I don’t even know how we got here. How’d we screw it up so badly?” 

It’s rhetorical. Stiles knows how. Everyone knows about his late hours, about the work trips that lasted longer than they needed too, the way they stopped saying ‘I’ll have to check with…” when making plans.

“I know there’s a lot I’m missing out on, but I think you two need to talk.” Stiles must sigh too loud because Scott’s voice cuts a little sterner, his pitch a little higher in the way it gets when he’s excited or frustrated, “I don’t get why you’ve been dragging it out for weeks when he sent the papers ages ago. You just admitted you’re not gonna fix it. Let it go so you can both move on.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, or he tries to but they’re a little wet at the moment and his chest is starting to need more attention than normal to keep pushing air through his lungs.

“I don’t think there’s anywhere to move on to. What’s the point? Why would anyone fall in love if- if you’re just gonna end up feeling like this? It’s like a bad dream. I just want to wake up so I can forget it all.”

The hiccup must clue Scott in that he’s pushed a little too hard because he responds in a gentler voice. 

“You’d really want to forget him?”

“Look at us!” Stiles spread his arms out into his empty office, valiantly not lingering on the spot on the floor he’d been laying on hours before. “I haven’t even seen him in almost a month, and I don’t know when before that. You can’t tell me we wouldn’t have been better off.”

He’s shaking a bit in the silence while he waits for Scott to respond. It’s preluded by a grunt. 

“As your best mate I can tell you, Stiles, you’re being a pussy.” Stiles sinks into his chair at the serious tone in Scott’s voice. They weren’t ones for fighting usually and dread quickly pooled in his gut at the thought of one more relationship thrown off balance. “The point is that you loved him and he loved you. It’s a damn shame you don’t anymore but you can’t write off everything you two have been through because you don’t like the ending. One day, if you’re damn lucky and not a miserable bastard like you are now, you’ll find someone else and do it all over again.”

Bile stings his throat with just the thought of having to go through anything similar to this ever again. Who is Scott to tell him about relationships anyway?

“Don’t preach at me, Scott.” He stresses the name mockingly. “You’d know all about finding someone new. How many girlfriends have you had this year? Is there a barista in this city you haven’t fucked?”

The line cuts off. Yeah, that’s fair. Stiles still clenches his phone tight enough to threaten cracking the screen. 

He’s angry because Scott hit too close to the truth and Stiles didn’t know how to answer. Would he really want to forget? He hasn’t even removed the face down silver frame from his drawer yet, unable to think of something suitable to do with the photo. So many of their moments together were intertwined with things he used to define himself. He wouldn’t be who he was without living through them. Was that a good thing though? There’s still a chance he’d have been more successful if he’d focused more on himself without distraction. Maybe he’d actually be able to get this house built. 

He hesitates over the search engine and changes the name. 

‘Peter Hale’ pulls up gallery websites and articles discussing the merits of his work. Stiles clicks over to see the images. He sees the flower, has seen it before but in the blind way you see advertisements on the metro and billboards on the street. He knows it’s there, but he’s never truly looked.

The longer he examines it the more uncomfortable he gets. It’s like that one time he agreed to proof-reading a love letter for Scott and got a glimpse at a side of him Stiles wasn’t aware truly existed. Stiles is swallowed by the sense of knowing. Each stroke of the translucent petals and their paper thin curl gives the impression that even the weight of a butterfly would disrupt it’s delicate beauty. 

He clicks onto another and his breath catches, eyes wide. He knows somewhere it’s the most recent one, the one causing the buzz and even more so due to Hale’s refusal to comment on it. Two figures in blue, shadowy and undefined silhouettes in a dark room. One of them has a little more light cast on it, like a window is singling them out while the other is faded in the same shades of the dark. Like it’s being washed out by the world around it. They’re hands face each other like they’re about to hold hands, or they were and just let go. 

Stiles looks at his own hands. Fingers the smooth white gold one last time with the pad of his thumb. He’s a tad shocked by how easy the ring slides right off. 

x 

His dad is crying. That’s no good because when John cries Stiles tends to cry, and then Derek’s going to cry, and he’s going to bitch about having red eyes in all of their photos for the rest of time. 

“Pops, I love you, but I can't look at you right now or Derek’s going to leave me for crying in our photos.” 

He chuckles wetly into Stiles’ shoulder while they hold each other tightly. He smells like the cologne he got him for christmas, the very bottle he’d almost dropped when he’d looked up to say thank you and had seen the engagement rings shining brightly on their fingers. The memory makes him smile but doesn’t help his case of holding back tears. 

Luckily this is what best friends are for and Stiles sweeps his dad out to the crowd to let Stiles get ready, because he is a saint, which he makes clear by pointedly telling him he owes him the same favour on his big day. 

The mirror looks like a dream. First time for everything, he figures. Crisp tux with a thin collar and a deep black shirt he’s kept unbuttoned at the top. Emotion has him in a stronghold, he doesn’t need his clothes to choke him too. There’s a knock on his door as he fusses with a cufflink. What’s the bloody point of these again?

“In a minute,” he throws over his shoulder. 

“Can’t wait a second longer,” a familiar voice shocks him and he drops the links as he turns around.

“Der-” 

Lips crash into his. Stiles’ hands automatically encircle Derek’s frame while they kiss with the vigor granted by nerves and excitement. Derek pulls back with a small gasp of air and pink cheeks. 

“M’sorry, I couldn’t wait. Christ, I’m sorry, look at you.” His hands smooth over the fabric on Stiles' chest, his eyes practically glowing. 

“Look at you,” Stiles laughs at the absurdity when Derek looks the way he does, hair tousled and eyes crinkling, a fitted black tux of his own wrapping around his fit limbs. They rest their foreheads together as their eyes roam disbelievingly over the crips lines framing their bodies.

“I ruined it, I’m sorry,” Derek presses a firm kiss to his lips. 

“Nothing’s ruined, babe. It’s perfect, you’re perfect.” Stiles kisses him back, glad that for once he won't have to worry about beard burn with Derek cheeks smooth under his palms. 

“Derek?” A female voice carries through the open door from down the hall. 

Derek ignores it and presses his forehead to Stiles’. 

“We’re getting married,” he sighs for the thousandth time since last year's proposal and it still manages to shoot electricity through Stiles’ veins as he repeats it back. 

“We’re getting married.” He whispers back, the words precious on his lips. 

“Derbear?” Someone calls again. 

“I have to go,” Derek kisses him one more time before stepping back flushed and bright eyed, “I’ve gotta go get married.” 

“What a coincidence,” Stiles holds onto his hand for a moment to kiss his knuckles and wink as Derek trips backwards when he lets go, “me too.” 

In the once more quiet room any nerves he had are sizzled out, overwhelmed by the vastness of his excitement. Not even the missing cufflink can deter his energy. He’s bouncing with it like Scott’s prone to do as he waits at the altar. He’s already seen Derek in his suit, but it has nothing on the sight of him walking down the isle. Derek slips the ring on his finger and it feels like coming home. 

When Derek’s lips crash into his it feels like the first time. They’re both crying in every single one of their pictures. 

x

The most notable thing to happen that week is a barrage of texts from Melissa telling him to call his dad. He sends back a close up of his nose. 

On Friday night Stiles stands in the front entrance and flicks the lights on for the first time in almost a month. Everything is eerily the same as it has been for the past four years. The same photos on the shelves, the same jackets lined up on the hooks. Scuffs on the walls where they wrestled out of clothes after late nights. A stain on one of the throw pillows when he’d jumped at a spider and been laughed at until it was shooed outside. Plants they couldn’t keep alive long ago brown and crisp on the sil. Every memory has faded with time, made months or even years ago. The most recent things he can think of are quick kisses passing in the hall going separate ways. They were ghosts to each other, living separate lives in the same space.

His phone vibrates. 

Ally:  
BYOWG - bring your own wine glass. May have had an accident, but the rosé is o-kay! 

Stiles flicks the light off and turns around. 

Stiles grunts as a body full of lanky limbs collides with his own. 

“Come back to me,” Allison whines. Stiles rolls his eyes at the ceiling, flat on his back on Allison’s sofa with the woman draped over him. “Your lines are fantastic and you don’t smell like ham.”

Stiles pats Allison’s back. The wine was long gone, sipped from mugs covered in cartoon cats because Stiles had not followed BYOWG courtesy, and Allison had pulled out more than just her shit beer when Stiles had a minor meltdown a few hours ago while watching one of his favourite rom-coms they’d had to shut off ten minutes in. They’d been talking for awhile now, so long and about so many things that Stiles couldn’t keep track of all of them or even how they moved from topic to topic, but somehow it kept flowing. That was the beauty of Allison, she could talk about nothing for hours. Movie related meltdowns aside, Stiles had barely thought of the ring missing from his finger. 

“Might have to with the peach of a first client I got.” 

“Isn’t it that Hale guy? I thought you were practically locked.” 

Stiles twitches at the tickle of Allison’s hair on his neck and the pungent smell of her breath. 

“So did I,” he huffs. Allison slides off to the side to rest beside him. Stiles’ lungs rejoice. “He’s really nice, actually, but it’s been nothin’ but move this, change that since… “ His hand hovers with the bottle halfway to his lips as he thinks about it. “M’ birthday. Got the papers then too.” 

“No you did not,” Allison perks up with a stern voice to look him in the eye. Stiles ducks his chin and grimaces as he swallows. Not the worst he’s had, he thinks, but that’s not right. It is the worst he’s had. “Stiles Gemerald Stilinski, you did not receive divorce papers on your birthday and let that man live.”

“Sure he didn’t know they’d be delivered on that day,” He says feebly and Allison rightfully smacks him on the arm a few times before sitting up fully, face going red with tension. 

“That filthy rat bastard. I’m going to peel the skin straight from his bones and punt his balls with a club. How could he-”

“Ally,” Stiles sighs softly and Allison thankfully freezes, “I don’t really wanna talk about him anymore.”

Allison deflates and settles with her head on her propped up hand, laying lengthways alongside Stiles. 

“Of course. Now tell me about why your nails are so chewed up and what colour you want me to paint them. I may be tipsy but I can still give a bomb manicure, just you wait and see. Ally never disappoints.”

She’s right. Stiles’ nails turn out a perfect shade of lilac despite Allison being more than just tipsy. Stiles waits for them to dry before turning onto his tummy and pressing himself up. The floor tilts a little on his first steps but he’s pretty sure it’s from the headrush of laying down so long. He’s also pretty sure he’s lying to himself about that. Seven times he swears to Allison he’s not going to drive himself home before he’s allowed to have his confiscated keys. Allison places them in his palm and covers Stiles’ hand in a firm hold. 

“This is the last I’ll say about it. You’re not faultless,” she tousles Stiles’ mess of hair, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you deserve better.” 

Stiles swallows the instant rebuttal and nods down the shame flickering in his belly. Allison leaves a sloppy kiss on his cheek and lets him go with a spread of he arms. 

“Now fly, my butterfly!”

Stiles flushes and as he gets into his uber he sends a wink over his shoulder. 

Ally:  
Like that u think ur chrming  
u jus look goofy squinting  
Ok ok its charming  
swoon

Looking at the bright screen in the back of the dark car a warm feeling washes over him. Allison has a way of making things seem alright. 

Another message pings into his inbox. Stiles goes cold at the name on the alert. His fingers fumble a second too long and his screen goes black, a little red battery lights up for a second when he tries to revive it. His heart races in his throat. 

By the time he’s back in the flat he’s settled on seeing it as a sign from the universe. It is well after two in the morning and if he wants to admit it or not, he’s drunk. Nothing good will come from talking to anybody right now. Least of all a certain someone.

He plugs his phone into the charger in the kitchen and forces himself to leave it alone. In the darkness of the living room he settles his hands on his hips. The tiredness he’d felt has been replaced by a haywire energy. His feet pull him down the hall, to the bedroom, into the closet. His eyes settle on the dark places he knows by memory are hollow. He flicks on the closet lights. 

His shirt got hooked on something at Allison’s and it’s missing a button or three, his hair is limp and frizzy, his five o’clock shadow is verging on uneven stubble. He’s a mess. 

“Stiles and Derek,” he says. Just to say. Just to taste it. 

Like lightning has struck he surges into action, mind blank as he shrugs out of his jacket and dives into the back of the closet. In the nook out of sight and nearly forgotten he manages to wrestle out a stack of folded up boxes. A few decisive folds and he has one built, then another, and he grabs at the nearest rack of clothes, taking everything off of the rung in one move. They land in the box with a dull thud. 

x

“Hey hey,” a hand slaps his wrist, “I’ll be taking that, thanks,” and there goes the last slice of pizza. 

Stiles sits back into the couch with a huff but he’s smiling under it at Derek’s self satisfied groan of enjoyment. It’s a rare night spent together, what with the shifts picking up and Stiles taking on more and more at work. The TV is rambling something in the background but Stiles hasn’t really been watching it for the past hour, too distracted bantering with Derek and discussing the merits of socks. 

“You’re going to have old man feet,” Stiles nudges Derek’s foot with his toe, “No one wants to smell old man feet.” 

“Bet you someone would. All sorts out there these days.”

Stiles’ face scrunches knowing Derek’s right. The things he’s been teased about every time he visits the precinct is enough to make a stripper blush. Derek warned him the team had no boundaries, but Stiles still made a habit of avoiding Erica’s salacious grin. If there’s one good thing about Derek’s upcoming career shift it would be the dwindle of interest in their sex life. Stiles scrubs his face to rid himself of the mental images and immediately regrets it when pizza grease slicks his skin. Derek snickers into his slice while Stiles pouts and rolls off of the couch. 

His hands are in the sink of the en suite when Phil Lynott insists someone should call the police from a tiny speaker in the living room. 

The ringtone stops as Derek greets, “Mr. Stilisnki!”

“Hey son, how are two doing?” John’s voice rings out.

Stiles is glad to hear his voice, happier still by the enthusiasm in Derek’s. His dad wasn’t trying to replace Derek’s family per say, no one could, but he called both of them regularly to be the voice of support only a dad could be. Derek launches into a story about their afternoon off. After his morning shift Stiles had scooped him up and they flopped onto a patch of grass for an impromptu picnic in a rare spot of sun. 

“He had the tiniest little hands, but they were so strong! Little man got my hat and just took off. I got a video of Stiles chasing after him.”

Stiles wipes down his face as he chuckles at the memory of chubby cheeks and mischievous eyes of Liam, the toddler he’d chased around. They’ve met his parents over the years on their walks around the neighbourhood, seen them go from pregnant to pram pushing and now Liam’s bobbing around two feet like a real human and it’s kinda crazy how fast time passes if Stiles thinks on it too long. 

He’s just switching off the bedroom light when his dad asks, “Can I expect little grandkids of my own, then?”

Stiles’ veins freeze over.

“No.” His voice cuts Derek off, booming through the house in a stern tone even he doesn’t recognize.

Stiles closes his eyes, shoulders hunched over in the doorway of the bedroom like he can hide from the tension building. He bites his tongue until tears pool in his eyes and his hands are clenched white on the doorframe. Stupid. He’s so stupid for thinking they’d have more time until this. His answer had been so instinctual he hadn’t a moment to hold himself back. Derek fumbles through a quiet goodbye on the phone behind him. 

Silence crackles in the air. Stiles lets out a shaky breath and knows he’s not ready for this, but he turns around any way and sees Derek frowning at him, standing at the other end of the hall so they’re face to face with metres of emptiness between them. 

“You don’t want kids with me?” He says it lightly, like he’s asking if Stiles doesn’t want pasta for dinner. 

Stiles winces at the copper taste from where he’s bit down too hard. 

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Derek shrugs in faux casualness, arms crossed like it’ll defend him when it only makes him look small. Stiles hates himself for making Derek look small. 

“Say it then, because I know you want a family. I’m trying to figure out why you don’t want one with me.”

Stiles shakes his head and is half grateful when his hair falls to help shield his eyes, “I never said I wanted-”

“You’ve been all over the kids every time we visit Boyd and Erica, and you adore Liam,” Derek holds his hands out like the proof is written on his palms.

“Enjoying time with kids and wanting your own are not the same thing, you can’t just assume when you haven’t asked.”

“I want kids.” Derek says firmly, pursing his lips like he’s trying not to let the angry tears fall and Stiles can’t comprehend how it got this bad this quickly. “You’ve always known I want kids, since the start. I shouldn’t have had to ask because if you’ve known-” his voice cracks and Stiles flinches like he’s been hit under Derek accusing glare, “you had plenty of time to say something.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. It’s true. He’s got nothing to defend himself with or excuses to hide behind. He’s known, he’s always known. 

“For fucks sake, Stiles.” Derek yells.

Stiles has seen him yell before, a deep growl on the job at as he demanded justice. He’s the same now, but there’s an undercurrent of anguish in those piercing eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest mimics the staccato pounding of Stiles’ heart. He’s pretty sure he can hear Derek’s breaking from here. 

Stiles can barely look at him. Derek must feel the same because his footsteps storm past him. Stiles is still standing in the hallway when Derek marches by with a bag over his shoulder and whips through the door. Stiles closes his eyes at the echoing slam. 

It doesn’t get better. Derek comes home a few days later because as he tells Stiles, he only packed enough for one night really and it’s a nuisance to stay elsewhere when this is his house too, damnit. Like a sticking point the topic comes up everytime they talk, which always ends in frustrated tears from both of them, so they don’t talk. At the end of the day they lay in silence on opposite sides of the bed. Hours have passed by in the dark when Stiles rolls out of the covers and shuffles in bare feet to the other side of the bed. He sits on the cold floor with his back against the wall, knees huddled close to rest his chin on his arms. 

Even as stressed out as he must be Derek is soft in his sleep. Stiles has a pitch black void in his chest clawing bigger every time he looks at him. His Derek, his beautiful and strong Derek. His hair tangled in knots on the pillow, eyelashes curling over deep purple bags, lips bitten and chapped. Stiles loves him with an aching so deep it resonates in his bones. 

“I wish I was stronger,” he mumbles into his arms, moisture collecting on his skin, “I’m sorry.” 

They haven’t touched since Derek smacked his hand out of the way for pizza. The warmth of their afternoon in the park feels a million miles away. Every glimpse he gets of the wounded look in Derek’s eyes and the cagey way he shoves out of a room when Stiles enters is a knife to the chest. It is the closest he’s ever come to regretting his choice, but he can’t take it back. He won't. 

Stiles sniffles and rubs his nose where it’s starting to run. This is the moment you lose him, he thinks. You’re a lying bastard and you deserve to be left. His tears are becoming not-so-silent so Stiles stands on shaky limbs and pads to the washroom. Blindly he puts the shower on and falls awkwardly into the tub with wet cotton clinging to his frame, hoping the water is enough to muffle the sobs tearing through his ribcage. 

x

Pounding wakes him up. His face is glued to the floor with dried drool and he grimaces at the peeling sensation. With one shift his body makes itself known and he groans at the flood of twinging muscles a night on the hardwood has caused him. He rests his forehead to the cool surface to steal himself through a wave of nausea. The pounding continues. 

“Stop,” he whines.

It, of course, does nothing to stop the noise. His attempt to stand makes it as far as hands and knees before he’s decided the world is swaying far too much to go further. In a crawl he makes it to the front door and catches the handle on his way into a flop on his back, heavy from exertion.

“Stop knocking,” he pants to whomever is gently nudging the door open around him. 

Squinting up he sees Scott’s upside down look of judgement. Maybe Stiles has earned that. His mouth tastes like death. Scott lets go of the door to step around him and it’s weighted for fire safety so it automatically slams. A shiver runs through Stiles. He whines when strong hands grab his forearms and haul him up. 

“I was going to ask why you weren’t answering your phone. Clearly you’ve been busy.”

Scott lets go of him once he’s righted and Stiles groans as he staggers against the wall. 

“Hold that thought,” he mumbles and urgently trips towards the bathroom.

After emptying his stomach and holding his head under the tap water he’s able to manage his way back to see Scott standing in the middle of the flat like it’s the place of a natural destruction. The simile is not far off. Boxes are scattered throughout the place, half filled with whatever was close by. 

“I gather you got his text?” Scott says leadingly. 

Stiles scratches the back of his head on the way to the kitchen and pauses mid step to crack his back. A painful pop reminds him he’s not twenty anymore and he needs to avoid sleeping on the floor for the rest of his life if it’s going to feel like this. 

“No, phone’s been dead since I left Allison’s.” 

Scott sighs in an eerily similar way as his dad, that ‘disappointed in you because you know better’ sigh. Stiles angles towards him with a hand on an open cupboard door. He could let it go, but there’s still a piece of him that doesn’t want to brush over things. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout what I said, about the girls.” 

He is. He’s really sorry, actually. He knows Scott is sensitive about his relationships and it was the worst place to poke, even if he was upset with him. Scott waves him off and Stiles frowns, hoping he can remember to do something nice for his friend when he’s more cognitive. He keeps scanning the cupboards and is thankful he hadn’t made it to the kitchen with the boxes last night. He’s not looking forward to sorting what’s been packed and repacking it later. Finally he finds the kettle, in an obvious spot on the counter near the fridge. He blames the fact that they’re both silver appliances and he’s still figuring out how to function. Scott settles onto a stool while Stiles putters around getting mugs. 

Scott rests his forearms on the counter and says, “I dunno how much you wanna hear about it, but he won.” 

The words take a moment to make sense and when they do Stiles narrowly avoids pouring scalding hot water on his hand. 

“He won Paris?” 

As soon as the immediate danger of hot water is gone by placing the kettle down he whips his head to Scott, who’s obviously trying not to look too excited or happy or whatever he thinks will bother Stiles. Stiles is the furthest thing from bothered. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he breathes through his nose as he paces around the island. His panicked eyes scan for his phone. 

He barely sees the timid text confirming Scott’s words before he slams the exclamation point as many times as he has the patience to before sending. It’s the first form of communication they’ve had since the papers. Stiles is man enough to admit that this is bigger than them, and he’s been supporting this struggle for so long he can’t help but feel proud even if it’s a little bittersweet. 

“What did you say?” Scott leans over further and cranes his neck. 

“Thought you didn’t want to get involved?” He arches his brow but relents at Scott’s non-pulsed expression, “I didn’t say anything, here,” He holds the phone out to Scott, wiggles it when Scott’s face furrows like he’s never seen a mobile before. 

“You took your ring off.”

Stiles puts the phone onto the counter and busies himself with the mugs so he doesn’t have to meet Scott’s sad puppy eyes.. 

“Yeah, uh… seemed like the thing to do.” He hooks a stool with his foot and scoots it closer until he can sit on it, pushing a mug of tea towards Scott. Scott, who’s still frowning like he’s dropped a cone of icecream on the floor. “That alright with you?”

Scott shakes the far away look off his face. 

“Of course, I mean… it’s just weird,” he shrugs, “Doesn’t seem like too long ago I was tying them to my shorts so I didn’t drop them in the water.” 

Stiles snorts at the memory of Scott tentatively dipping his feet into the surf as the party of four waited, already waist deep. Eloping with Scott as their witness had seemed like the easiest option for a pair of twenty two year olds wanting a breather after university. Choosing to do the ceremony in the water hadn’t been his idea, but it definitely made things memorable. 

Scott taps his fingers on the counter offbeat and takes more than one try to look less than desperately curious when he asks in a false casual voice, “It’s done, then? You signed the papers?” 

Stiles looks away and sips his tea with a grimace. Too bitter. He’s never been one for tea and he can’t recall what drove him to make it. 

“I might have shredded them,” he says to his reflection in the mug and tries to resist the pull of Scott’s wide eyes, “by accident.”

“Bro,” Stiles sighs at the tone of that one word, knowing what’s coming, “are you sure you don’t want to keep trying? Like maybe even a little?”

Stiles doesn’t need to go too deep to know the honest truth. He misses him, but he’s got a feeling getting back together would be worse than being alone. 

“No. I know you keep saying we gotta talk, but that’s the issue. We have talked, for years, and now we’re just…” he plops a sugar cube into his tea in a desperate attempt to make it palatable, “out of things to say.”

The sugar has done nothing for it, the tea is a lost cause and Stiles slowly slides it away from him with a wince at the sound. God, he feels like roadkill. 

Scott’s turned to face him by now, his knees bumping Stiles’ thigh as he asks with his blunt grace, “So what’s it really about?”

Stiles slumps over until his forehead rests on the polished stone. He picks at the lavender polish on his nails. Something’s been scratching at the back of his mind since he woke up, something persistent under the ache of his hangover. 

“I’m so weak.” His voice is so small Scott probably can’t even hear him, but he says it anyway because it’s been resonating in his chest all morning, “I don’t know if I can love again.”

A broad hand firmly smooths over the curve of his hunched back. It’s comfort is insurmountable. 

“You practically radiate light,” Stiles hears Scott shuffle around until an arm swoops around his stomach and he’s being hugged from the side, Scott’s head resting on his back, “You’re bursting with love, Stiles. Sometimes it hurts, but you owe it to the universe to let it out anyway.”

Stiles is caught off guard by the earnesty. The words float around in his mind. Scott’s naive if he really thinks that, but it’s nice of him to try to find the right things to say.

“Hey Scott?” He murmurs into the counter. Scott hums, his cheek vibrating on Stiles’ shoulder blade. “You should put that in your next letter.”

They chuckle softly and it vibrates between them to ease out of the serious moment. Scott’s not really hugging him anymore, more just resting against him. Stiles doesn't mind, his eyes have already drooped closed. He’s not sure what time it is or how long he slept, but it can’t have been long with the way gravity seems tenfold stronger.

“Blame new crush, I’ve got major heart eyes going on every time I even think about her.”

Stiles know this is it. The thing he was looking for earlier. 

“We should go see if she’s working today.” Stiles says, regretting it only a little because he still feels like rubbish. 

Scott perks up, letting Stiles also regain proper vertical position and confirm it was the right thing to say by the hopeful glint in Scott’s eyes. 

“Yeah?”

Stiles smiles genuinely, regret vanished despite how he still has to put a hand on Scott’s shoulder to keep the world from spinning too harshly. 

“I’ve had enough of my own drama, time to watch you fumble through awkward flirting.”

Scott nearly knocks him off the stool, both laughing as Stiles scurries out of reach and imitates Scott’s pathetic pick up lines. 

On Monday Stiles is still smiling over the memory of Scott getting muffin stuck in his hair the day before while he greets Lydia. He takes a solid ten minutes chatting to her about an arthouse film she saw on the weekend. Finstock, the private investment banker who owns the first office in the hall, calls his name as he passes by just as Stiles fully expected he would. 

“Stiles! You’ve been a busy little bee these days, how’ve you been?” 

Finstock’ cheeks are rosy and his eyes a little wild. A steaming mug decorated in his children's faces is perched next to his elbow. Stiles shrugs with a hint of guilt. The man is a laugh and a half and Stiles usually enjoys their offbeat chats a few times a week, but Finstock is the type of person you never want to tell too much to. He cares just a little too much. Last time Stiles mentioned being sick Finstock had insisted he force down the nastiest concoction Stiles had ever had the displeasure of smelling, an old family recipe apparently. 

“Doing okay, hopefully finishing up a project any day now.” 

He steps fully into the office and up to Finstock’ desk full of frames and knick-nacks. 

“Fantastic! Oh, you’ve gotta see this. Max had a talent show and Julia thinks it’s her influence but I’m certain he’s taken after his father.” He winks and pulls up a video of a chubby boy doing clumsy magic tricks in a large top hat. It knocks down into his eyes every time he moves his head. “Look at that, my boy is absolutely brilliant.” 

Stiles tries to swallow the thick air. Beside him Finstock is captivated by the little boy on screen and Stiles can tell he’s probably mesmerized every second of it, yet he still chuckles along, completely charmed by his son. He’s seen a million videos and pictures of Finstock’s children, has met them a handful of times even, but today a sourness twists in his stomach. The video is tortuously long. Finstock drops the phone while tucking it away and talking about having to convince his son a stuffed rabbit was better than a living one, giving Stiles a much needed moment to steady his pulse and run his hand through his hair. 

“Very cute,” he comments with the barest hint of a smile as he eases towards the door, “I forgot there’s an email I have to reply to within the hour.” 

Finstock pops up from where he’s kneeled on the floor to look for his phone. 

“Oh. All right well, don’t be a stranger this time. You know you’re always welcome to stop by.” And Finstock means it too, his face openly heartfelt. He looks a lot like his son. 

“Thank you,” Stiles manages before he finally turns away and lets out a shaky breath, his face dropping into a severe frown. 

His own office is a tidy sense of chaos. Papers lay in loose puddles along the corners and a few scattered groups of drawing utensils lay shoved off to the sides. An itch rolls under his skin, a pressing need to clear everything from sight not too dissimilar from the frenzy he’d felt Friday night. He dumps half of his tools in a jumbled mess in the drawer and collects the papers into three prim piles on the cleared worktop. Everything in his shredder and rubbish bin gets tossed. The two old mugs he’s never seen before are returned to the break room. Stepping back into his office he regains a sense of calm. 

There are notifications from Peter, but they have nothing to do with work. Somewhere along the way they struck up an email chain that started life as a follow up to their lunch and wound into a recipe exchange coupled with chatting about their favourite modern artists. It was odd, but Stiles was kind of enjoying this turn of events as their growing friendship coincided with a decrease in work for Stiles. With no new adjustments or additions he powers through a thorough overview.

Lydia comes in with ‘it’s not your birthday’ cookies on her way out. She confesses she bought them on her lunch hour because she burned the batch she’d attempted and Stiles valiantly tries not to get a little weepy over the sweetness of the gesture. He leaves not long after her with a cleared ‘to-do’ list for the first time in months. 

x

Derek calls them ‘his kids’ and Stiles is known to do the same. Their smiling faces greet him from the frame by the closet when he comes home. Even though they change one or two a year Stiles could point each of them out in a crowd without hesitation. It’s not quite the same, but they’re happy. Derek is happy. His side of the hooks is overflowing with track jackets and windbreakers with bright bold ‘CAPTAIN’ stitched into them. Stiles toes his shoes off and privately thinks not for the first time that it suits Derek better. Even with the stress of wrangling attitudes and expectations there’s a youthful spark in his eyes when watching over his team.

It’s a Saturday, the designated day of errands for Stiles and work for Derek. He’s almost done, and then he’ll meet Derek at the precinct with soup in a thermos and wait out the last few minutes pretending he’s not staring at his husband’s ass in a uniform. All these years and he still can’t resist. 

Stiles has got an armload of groceries halfway to the kitchen when he freezes. There’s a sound coming from deeper in the house.

“Derek?”

A sob cuts off, the absence of rustling bags allowing the sound to echo. Stiles drops the bags. With his heart pounding in his eardrums he rounds into the kitchen. The world stops turning. Derek’s balled up in the corner on the floor. Stiles approaches slowly and crouches in front of him, struggling with his own breath as he runs his hand through Derek's soft locks. The wavering words are ash in his mouth. He’s hollow already, like a puppet going through the motions.

“Der, what is it?”

Derek doesn’t need to tell him that the doctor he didn’t tell Stiles about called while he was running in to fill his water bottle, that he’d lied about being alone, that it’s called acute myelogenous leukemia. It’s aggressive and the survival rate is low and it’s currently taking over Derek’s body. After this they will fall apart twice more, once in the shower and again swaddled in the rosey duvet as sorrow pours from their skin, and that’s when they’ll talk. Stiles knows because he’s already been through it once before. 

But right now they’re on the cold floor of the kitchen and Derek’s eyes filled with the ocean look up to him and it’s not fair. It’s not fair. They’ve had their number of meltdowns as life had its way with them. In the bedroom, sometimes in the bathroom, where intimate things happened and doors could be closed. Not on the kitchen floor. This grief clawing them with crooked hooks was not meant to be experienced somewhere so brightly exposed. 

Stiles only gets a glimpse of the red and shiny mess of Derek's face before the man is falling heavily into his arms and shaking apart. He hiccups through the one cursed word. 

“Cancer.”

Stiles ducks his face into Derek’s neck and squeezes his eyes closed, tasting salt and the indescribable essence of Derek. His arms go tight around the man like he’s trying to hold a shadow. Derek hands grip him painfully until his nails dig into Stiles’ skin, his breath hot and wet and snotty on Stiles’ shoulder with every uncontrollable gasp. Whatever he needs Stiles lets him take. Every atom of Stiles’ being yearns to sink into Derek, to give him everything. Everything. 

Not yet, Stiles pleads with the universe. Time has sifted through his hands, it wasn’t supposed to happen yet. 

His lips move silently against the soft skin of Derek’s neck, two words on repeat he can’t shake. 

Please. Stay.

x

Stiles’ eyes are crusted over when he wakes the next morning. He rolls over in a bed empty but for two matching pillows and Stiles, who feels like his soul is resonating with a pain deeper than anything he could have fathomed when he closed his eyes last night. It takes several minutes and with a hot towel pressed to his face to painlessly unclump his eyelashes. He buttons his shirt up slowly, losing track of his thoughts halfway with his fingers stumble over the blank skin of his stomach. He’s never felt off about his reflection but now the sight of it makes him feel unbalanced, like he’s lacking. He rolls back his shoulders to knock the thoughts out of mind. 

A blaring horn jarrs him out numbness during his commute. Some disgruntled woman has pulled up beside him and is leaning out of her driver side window to yell at him. 

“Get your head outta your ass!”

Her mini cooper speeds past him and Stiles realises the light is green. Probably has been for a while. He stomps on the gas and winces at the harsh rev of the engine as he jostles into action. He sits in his car long after he’s parked. Sweat starts to gather under his clothes, the sun and humidity uncomfortably filling the car. His eyes catch on his plaque glinting in the light. The shape of his name feels unfamiliar. Wrong.

“Fuck the universe.” His voice is hoarse and his throat sore. 

He keeps his head down but Lydia’s cheerful call still rings out.

“Stiles! Your last scheduled appointment with Peter is today. Think this’ll really be it?” 

“Yeah, uh” He shifts in his coat, eyes unable to focus in the brightly lit front hall. Why is there so much glass? Everything’s so reflective. The last thing he wants to see is his face. “Dunno.”

He ignores the questioning tilt of her head and runs a hand through his tangled hair on his way to his office. He slumps into his office chair. The symbols on his computer screen refuse to come into focus. He’s still staring blindly at them when Peter walks in with a little girl. 

“Hey Stiles,”

“Hi.” He says automatically, spinning to face the pair. He looks at the little girl holding the artist’s hand, trying to understand how she fits in. 

“Malia, say hello to Stiles.”

The girl waves bashfully and curls into Peter’s knee as she mumbles, “Hi Stiles.” 

“Malia?” Stiles looks at Peter, then back down to the little girl with thick eyebrows and round cheeks. She’s so small. The moment has dragged on too long when she wavers like she wants to fully duck behind Peter’s leg. It kicks him into gear and he stands. “Right, yes. It is very lovely to meet you, Malia.”

Peter looks down and pats her shoulder, “She wanted to see the pictures. Don’t let the act fool you, she’s very excited.”

“Of course.” Stiles nods, hands on his hips. 

Stiles looks at the monitor. It’s still on the opening login screen. He spins back to them.

“Did you meet Lydia on the way in? I bet if you ask very nicely she’ll make us some tea while I pull things up. Sorry, straight lost track of the time.” 

Peter cocks a brow at him before kneeling down to the girl to ask, “You okay with asking the pretty lady, sweets?” 

Malia nods at her father with a big smile and dashes out the door. 

“No running!” Peter calls and they watch her little figure stutter into a skip through the frosted glass. 

Peter shakes his head. Stiles doesn’t realise he’s watching until Peter’s eyes meet his. He jerks back to the monitor and tries to remember the log in information he’s entered on autopilot every morning since graduation. 

“You okay?”

Stiles inwardly winces at the flightiness of his movements, knowing he’s coming off as twitchy. 

“Yeah, sorry uh,” His eyes flit down to Peter’s fingers. Bare. “I feel a bit slow. Thought Malia was your wife or… ” He shrugs, not sure where he was going with it. His fingers somehow find the right combination to gain access to his own computer. 

Peter glances down the hall and steps closer to Stiles. 

“Her mother passed last year.”

The breath punches out of Stiles and a sardonic note in the back of his head says he should have seen that coming.

“I’m… “ and what he means to say is ‘sorry for your loss’ but what comes out is “I can’t imagine raising a kid on my own.” 

His own face scrunches as the words leave his lips. Why would he say that? But it’s true. Seeing his dad raise him on his own instilled a fierce desire for Stiles to always want a partner if he were to have his own. Peter shrugs, because that’s what Peter does, and runs his thumb over his lips. 

“It was harder on my wife. We knew she was sick for a long time so she knew she wouldn’t be around for Malia when she grew up. I think that devastated her a lot more than the illness.”

Stiles knows his face is doing something but he feels no control over it when storm clouds have invaded his mind. He tries to focus instead on the screen in front of him. 

“That’s terrible, I’m…”

The mouse on the screen pauses. The memory of a voice he’s never heard echoes in his head. _‘You don’t want kids with me?’_ But Stiles has always wanted kids. Always. 

He rubs his brow with his free hand and continues to slowly bring up the rendered 3D visualisation of the home, a task that’s starting to seem impossible when every click takes the concentration of a rocket scientist. 

“That’s terrible.” He repeats dully.

“You sure you’re okay?” 

Stiles meets the man’s eyes and there’s something about Peter, something about his delicate features and uncomplicated presence that convinces Stiles to be honest. 

“Had a few vivid dreams lately. Hard to shake.” 

He waves vaguely with his fingers like he needs any more demonstration on how scattered he feels. Peter opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but grunts instead as Malia runs into the back of her father's legs. She wraps her skinny arms around him when he lifts her up. Lydia comes in a second later with a tea tray. 

“As you requested, sire.” She faux curtsies at Stiles and he’s got a feeling he’ll need to send another round of flowers to thank her for playing along.

Finally the file has loaded and Stiles gets up so Peter can sit with Malia in his lap. They navigate through it and Malia particularly loves the slide. Watching her take in the design with unhindered excitement things start to make sense. Why the counter was lowered five inches, why there’s a new reading nook, why one of the closets extended the length of one of the bedrooms. The additional en suite. Peter being adamant about the downstairs windows so there wouldn’t be a blind spot in the backyard. 

When they’ve gone through it Stiles asks her with a sudden desperation, “What do you think, your highness?” 

And his whole career might not literally hinge on this moment but it sure feels like it. She pauses in fake thought, probably enjoying the rapt attention Stiles is giving her too much to pass it up so quickly. 

“Splendid!” She bursts and claps her hands. 

Stiles tries to hide the wave of relief her squealing brings him. The smirk he gets from Peter tells him he’s failed, but the fact that he hasn’t collapsed from holding his breath for so long should be a feat appreciated on it’s own. 

They set Malia up with a few pencils and paper to doodle and take the time to delve into every detail Peter can think to ask about. He doesn’t ask with the analytical eye of caution, his tone remains curious and lighthearted in the same way Stiles is starting to realize he’s always been. Perhaps, Stiles admits to himself, there had been a bit, a pinch, a hint of projection when it came to his perception of Peter. 

Everything is perfect. Of course it is, because Stiles is fucking good at what he does and Peter’s, well, Peter Hale. Anything he has a hand in is going to be brilliant. With satisfaction Stiles locks the blueprint. Malia hands him a roughly folded piece of paper when Peter tells her it’s time to go. In squiggly penmanship are her name and a large number seven. 

“You have to come ‘cause I’m the princess and you’re the prince, so you have to,” she says. 

Stiles looks helplessly at Peter. 

“Her birthday party is in a few weeks, but that’s not how we ask nicely, is it?” He tilts his head at Malia who rightfully looks abashed. 

“Mr. Stilinski, will you come to my party?” She says in a recited way and Peter sighs. 

“And the magic word?”

“Puh-leeease?” 

Stiles can’t help the laugh that slips at her obvious exhaustion at having to use manners. 

“I’ll be there, princess.” He says with his first genuine grin in a long time. 

The crush of a hug he receives is unexpected. Malia only lets go after he pinky promises to really attend her party. Peter mentions emailing the details later and together they tidy up the things Malia had been amusing herself with. They’re heading out with Malia resting her head on Peter’s shoulder, eyes half mast from a waning sugar rush, and Peter looks back at him. 

“Get some sleep, yeah?”

Stiles’ attention is caught on the way Peter’s hand automatically holds Malia close, the little rub of his thumb on her back. The way she sweetly clings to him. 

“Yeah.”

When Peter leaves Stiles pulls up the search engine. Seconds later the blue painting takes up his screen. It’s easy to see now that one of the figures is smaller than the other, that the one sitting in the dark isn't blurred by shadow, they’re near translucent, like they’re fading. Disappearing. Yet it’s the millimetres of space between their hands that pulls at Stiles’ heart the most. Stiles feels it down to his bones. He could never watch that gap grow.

The echo of a voice in the hall jars him. He recognizes it and yet can’t place it until the words come through. 

“-till his husband, if you bothered to check. Mind your business and let me through.”

Footsteps and a blurred figure on the other side of glass walls get closer and Stiles paws at his face, praying he didn’t actually have tears in his eyes as he pulled up the screensaver just in time for his husband to walk through the door. Ex-husband, he needs to start thinking. The man stops a few steps in, hands on his hips and a foot forward like he’s the one in need of stability right now. 

“Hello, Stiles.”

Stiles stands with a hand in his hair, rounding his desk and leaning on it to keep him grounded. Somehow it’s not as weird as it should be. Other than the celebratory text they haven’t talked in over a month, but that’s what they agreed on when they decided to split, and Stiles isn't sure the alternative would have been better. He’s missed the man, and it’s still a bit hard to swallow that he’s failed at being a husband, but the time apart has solidified his opinion that this was the right move for both of them. 

“Congratulations on the case,” He says and nearly rolls his eyes at the sheepish shrug he gets in return. He makes a point of meeting his blue eyes straight on, “I mean it, Jackson. You deserve it.”

Jackson nods in thanks with a little pleased smile on his lips. He's just as stupidly handsome as when they met in university, two foolish kids racing around for their degrees and taking out pent up energy on each other. It had been exciting until they'd grown up and had no more energy to give. 

Jackson's face creases, “Did you get them? I couldn’t hand them to you myself and I didn’t realise they wouldn’t go to the apartment until they’d already left. Sorry if it caused a fuss. I know we were thinking one of us would keep the place, but I’ve got an eye on something and I need to know if you’re ready to buy out or sell.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels like Stiles knows he does when he feels awkward. Stiles remembers the sour taste of bile when he’d gotten the papers and pushes the memory away with a shake of his head. It could have been the other way around just as easily if Stiles had picked heads when they flipped a coin. 

“Yeah, I uh…” his eyes catch on the empty shredder bin beneath his desk. “Actually I’m gonna need another copy. I got the ring though, but you know you can keep it. You were the proposer, I think that’s how it works.” He purses in thought. Is that how it works? 

“Nah, I dunno.” Jackson shrugs, hands still in pockets, “Buy yourself something nice.” 

Stiles ducks his head and catches sight of where a silver frame used to sit on his desk. 

He smiles and says with a hint of bitter sweet fondness, “Maybe I’ll go on a trip.”

“I hear Hawaii’s real nice.” Jackson smirks and sure, it’s a little forced, but it’s good. Maybe it’ll be weird for a while as they adjust, but Stiles can imagine a future where they don’t twitch everytime someone mentions their past. They’re not quite there yet. For now their eyes are both a little damp and they do each other the courtesy of not mentioning it. 

“I’ll resend the pages,” Jackson says, angling towards the hall. 

He stops with his back pressed against the clear glass of the door long enough for Stiles to meet his look. There are so many things Stiles wants to say his mind feels full, but when he opens his mouth it’s empty. 

Jackson manages first, “I’m glad it was you, Stiles.” 

He ducks out before Stiles can respond. He’s still leaning against the desk when he realises what he wanted to say. 

“I don’t regret it.” He says to the empty room. 

To the universe. 

x

Peter’s apartment is packed with children and parents alike. Their masterpiece of a house is still in construction, although hopefully nearing completion if the contractor can be trusted, and it’s interesting to reflect on how aspects of this place have sewn their way into the design they’d worked on months ago. Stiles feels a little out of place but relatively enamoured with Malia’s excitement as she shows off her new extensive doll house. It has a slide, of course. The cupcakes are worth the visit alone, and he’s completely unfazed by the hot pink icing and has to hold himself back from eating more than three. Peter promises to email him the bakery name.

He’s washing off pink icing from between his fingers in the washroom when he hears the party start singing Happy Birthday. Voices are still clashing when he goes to the kitch to avoid the crush of people congregated in the dining room. He grabs a bottle from the counter just for something to occupy his hands and takes a sip of the worst beer he’s ever going to taste in his life. Someone laughs and when he looks up all he sees is a man with the ocean captured in his eyes. 

Words tumble from his lips dumbly as he watches the other man drink his own sip. It’s the same. All of it is the same. 

He finds himself leaning heavily into the counter as the guy comes back with a cup of kids punch, apparently the only thing strong enough to wash out whatever rubbish they just tried, and stands next to him. Closer than someone might normally but not too weird in a party setting. 

His voice is possibly the sexiest thing Stiles has ever heard when he says, “Derek Hale,” with a cute little nod just like Stiles knew he would. 

“Fucking…” Derek arches a brow at him and Stiles gets with the programme, “Stiles Stilinski.”

He gulps down the punch and wishes desperately it had alcohol content. Beside him Derek settles comfortably with an amused tilt to his head. 

“So, Fuckin’ Stiles Stilinski, you seem a little old to be at my cousin’s party. What are your intentions?”

Stiles’ laugh is a little sharp. Something warm is pooling in his gut as he shakes his head ruefully and leans a tad closer. 

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a prince.” He motions to the paper crown he’d been adorned with upon entry.

When Derek smiles his cheeks push up so his eyes are squinted near shut. 

Stiles has a feeling he’ll dedicate his life to making this man smile. 

x

**Author's Note:**

> Hmmmm.... so how did it go?
> 
> Find me and this fic (+more!) on tumblr :)  
> https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/Wishing


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